


Love goes towards love, as schoolboys from their books

by GingerNinjaAbi



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-13 14:52:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 92,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2154681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GingerNinjaAbi/pseuds/GingerNinjaAbi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>same old story: teenage hormones, school-work, sneaking out of bed, loving dejectedly, Fizzing Whizbees, Quidditch matches, and nearly falling off moving staircases. perhaps some of it's slightly less common.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the day is overcast, and owls are named after doomed greeks

The rain had settled overnight into a fine grey mist, upon October air now grown chilly with the promise of coming winter. Grantaire had listened to it, half awake, throughout the restless night, fine raindrops almost rasping against the circular windows that were placed high around the dormitory, windows that would let in streaks of warm sunshine on clear mornings.

The sky stretching high above the Great Hall was far from that today however, but gloomy and promising no subsiding of the dreary weather that had moved in over dinner last night. It was so dark in the hall, that the hundreds of candles scattered above them were lit, their flames reflected dully on the glossy, polished tables. It was days like these, Grantaire mused, as he helped himself to another slice of toast, that made early mornings all the more unendurable. The hall itself felt chilly today, despite the quantity of students sitting on the long benches, making the most of breakfast before they had to go to their lessons. From his rather slumped position at the Gryffindor table, he could feel the rather feeble efforts of the fire in the high, arching stone grate, just past the Hufflepuff table. He was now half-wishing he’d sat with the rest of his own house today. 

“ _Why,_ ” Courfeyrac asked of the sky loudly, his enunciation somewhat impaired by a mouthful of Cheery-Owls, “Is Herbology our _first lesson_?” 

Next to him, Bahorel took a long sip of warm tea, and tried not to look too smug. Sixth years were usually smug, Grantaire had noticed this term, as half their timetables were normally vacant. He could afford to be pleased with himself after the hour and a half he had to spend outside in the cold, damp grounds.

“My essay for Babbling is only fourteen and a half inches.” Jehan said, his nose wrinkling in annoyance, the tape measure he had conjured disappearing into thin air, “Do you reckon she’ll notice?”

“Cross a paragraph out and write it again.” Grantaire offered, around a mouthful of toast and jam, “Instant four inches. Works like a charm.” 

A snort issued from the area to his left, and he didn’t have to look over to know exactly whose mouth it had come from. Grantaire reached for his goblet of orange juice, its contents bright and glimmering from the candlelight above.

“Disapprove of my below par methods?” He said loudly, grinning, before he turned his eyes on Enjolras, who was currently neatly folding his Slytherin scarf into his bag. 

“I’m sure they work very well for you.” Was all he said in response, and Grantaire had to admit that he felt somewhat disappointed at the appeasing reply.

“Mornings obviously turn you into a more agreeable person, Enjolras,” Grantaire tried again, beginning to swirl the goblet of orange juice around so that it glinted further, “And make you far more accepting of shortcuts in all-so-important subjects.”

Enjolras paused for a minute, looking at him, and Grantaire determinedly held his gaze, and ignored the fact that it was far too early, _far_ too early for the way his hands suddenly felt clammy, the way his heartbeat now seemed to be beating erratically somewhere by his throat.

“I would have thought,” Enjolras finally said, and Grantaire was sure, very sure, that he wasn’t imagining the small smile that was now lifting the corners of Enjolras’s mouth, “That you know me well enough to know how essays aren’t always high on my list of priorities.”

Grantaire gave him a genuinely amused, toothy grin, and allowed him to return to the remains of his breakfast. 

He had to allow Enjolras that, he reflected, as Combeferre directed the conversation towards their plans for the Hogsmeade trip in a week’s time. Ever since he’d known him, Enjolras had placed much above his own schoolwork; things that didn’t help him, but helped others. All the way from when he was a serious-faced eleven year old, to now, as he sat at the Gryffindor table, with his fair hair curling about his face, as if the strands were trying to reach him, to skim lovingly against his lips, his long, fair eyelashes; the features of his face that Grantaire wished his own eyes didn’t trace in raw longing. 

“I can’t believe I’m practicing Quidditch in this tonight,” Bahorel’s voice cut across Grantaire’s constant and spiralling distractions in the fair-haired boy across from him, and he looked back at his breakfast plate,

“Nothing like a rainy, muddy practice session.” Courfeyrac told him gleefully, busy wrapping himself in his scarf, his dark curls springing out from under the red and yellow woven fabric.

“I seem to remember last time, you got the password for the prefect’s bathroom off Courfeyrac, and followed your practice session up with three straight hours in the prefect’s bathroom, trying out all the bubble bath.” Combeferre said lightly, spearing a grilled tomato onto his fork. 

Bahorel instantly brightened at the prospect. 

“ _Prefects._ ” Eponine muttered, from Grantaire’s left side, and Musichetta giggled. 

“You have to cut them a little slack,” Grantaire said, eyes drifting to Enjolras once more, where, currently hidden under a fold in his robes, lay a shiny prefect badge, “It must be _so_ hard to conform to, and work with, a system that prizes academic intelligence above all other forms of merit.”

Enjolras coloured, and a mental chime of twisted success rang in Grantaire’s head.

“If handled correctly, being a prefect is in no way an endorsement of that,” He snapped, “The responsibility can, and _should_ be used to help students struggling in any manner.”

Grantaire, who knew better than anyone that Enjolras was the last person who would abuse any position in power, and had to be talked round by Combeferre into even accepting his prefect badge, couldn’t resist sitting back in his seat and sending Enjolras a smirk.

“If you say so, dear.”

Enjolras blushed, scowled, and in one swift movement, got to his feet and swung his bag over his back, stalking away from them without a second glance. 

Grantaire watched him leave as Courfeyrac sighed heavily, and reached for his orange juice once more.

“I think he’s warming up to me.” He said. 

“It’s only taken six years.” Said Feuilly, by way of announcing his arrival.

“You shouldn’t wind him up so much, R.” Combeferre said in his measured tones, fixing Grantaire with a glance that was only slightly exasperated. 

“Temptation is a mistress I cannot deny.” Grantaire responded, and checked his watch, “Hadn’t we better get going to the greenhouses?”

“Typical.” Feuilly sighed in mock dramatic fashion, and he began wrapping five pieces of toast in a napkin for the journey. 

The walk to the greenhouses was unpleasant, the grass muddy underfoot and the trees that were fading from summer dripping on their heads. The greenhouses lay clustered near the castle; the lake just visible ahead of them, grey and dreary today. The rich smell of soil hung in the air, and the greenhouse windows were misted from the clashing temperatures, the old, intricate glasswork stained green. It was warm inside, the kind of warm belonging to a tropical climate, and the six of them that still took Herbology; Grantaire, Joly, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Feuilly and Musichetta all went gratefully in, dumping their bags around the work station, far away from the Snargaluffs over in the corner, which had developed a nasty habit of snagging themselves on nearby people with their thorn covered vines.

Professor Longbottom arrived last, after the few minutes of waiting where Feuilly had fed the Chinese Chomping Cabbage the remains of his toast, and the few others taking Herbology to NEWT level had filed in, all of them looking somewhat sodden from the walk. The smell of damp began to permeate the room. 

The days weren’t yet gone when someone didn’t, at least once a week, ask Professor Longbottom to show them the coin that had marked him a member of Dumbledore’s Army, during the days of Voldemort’s second rise to power. And it was usually Courfeyac. Grantaire himself didn’t mind it either, it was oddly calming to have a reminder, each week, that some dark things could be brought to an end, even if some of them continued to thrive like the poisonous plants that grew in this hot greenhouse. 

Today, Professor Longbottom set them the task of treating the wilting leaves of a few of the Venemous Tentacula that usually stood along the length of the greenhouse. Grantaire might have held more sympathy for them, if they didn’t keep grabbing him every time he made to move past. Professor Longbottom had kept up the compromise he had told them had existed in his own school days, and they were allowed to swear loudly whenever the plant stabbed unexpectedly at exposed skin, something Grantaire found himself taking full advantage of.

“FUCK!” He said loudly, five minutes into the lesson, as a vine tangled in his hair, and pulled on it hard. 

“Hang on,” Joly said, far too calmly for Grantaire’s liking (he supposed it was all part of his practicing his bedside manner for when he achieved his dream and worked at St Mungo’s), “ _Diffindo._ ”

With an oddly disappointed, and squelchy noise, the Venemous Tentacula let go of Grantaire, and sidled sulkily back towards its pot, its leaves gnashing their teeth. 

Owing to that early, hair-related discovery, tending the Venemous Tentacula turned out to require much concentration, which was perhaps for the best, as Grantaire’s mind was often inclined to wander to thoughts he’d rather not think about. Enjolras, for example, was never far from his mind, and thinking about him rarely brought much pure happiness, only the kind that was warped and interwoven with the toxic feeling of hopelessness and self-hatred. He knew trying to illicit curt responses from Enjolras was a poor substitution for actual conversation, but the latter was too rare for Grantaire to survive on. So he encouraged Enjolras to dislike him, encouraged rolled eyes and waspish retorts, and he relished the twisted proximity it caused them. 

The rain had steadily increased by the time the lesson ended and they began the walk back up to the castle for the half hour break. Courfeyrac stayed behind to help Professor Longbottom put the Venemous Tentatcula back in their normal places, and no doubt hear his rendition of the Battle of Hogwarts for the umpteenth time. Whilst they were usually turned out into one of the courtyards, the drizzle meant they were able to stay in the castle for the break, and they headed to the classroom on the second floor, where they usually spent the time.

The proud, arching ceilings of the classroom made the room cold, like the rest of the castle, and the thin window panes rattled gently from the rain, but it still felt oddly cosy; in a way that Grantaire had found only Hogwarts could achieve.

Jehan, Marius, Bossuet and Eponine were already there, sat around a few of the desks; one of the jars they’d snuck out the Potions classroom a few weeks ago now before them, lit with the blue, dancing flames Joly had showed them all how to do in their second year. 

“Nice free period?” Musichetta asked them as she planted a kiss on Bossuet’s forehead in greeting. He blushed and grinned.

“Oh yeah, we got lots of work done.” He replied, dragging a chair across for her to sit down on. “We tried to get into Jehan’s common room.”

“And it made me feel very secure in the knowledge that I shall always be able to avoid you all up in Ravenclaw Tower.” Jehan concluded, looking a little smug. “Which reminds me, Professor Flitwick said he wanted to talk to one of the Ravenclaw prefects about something, Combeferre.” 

“ _Preeeefect._ ” Musichetta, Grantaire and Bossuet all said in unison, mock repulsion dripping from the stretched out word. Combeferre’s lips twitched.

“I thought that would have got old after last year-”

“-Nope.” Bossuet grinned. 

“I’ll meet you in Arithmancy, Marius.” Combeferre said, re-hoisting his bag over his shoulder and heading towards the classroom door. He got there just as Courfeyrac arrived, his curls slightly sodden and a bright smile on his face. It widened at the sight of Combeferre, and Grantaire, slouched back against his seat, idly watched them have a brief, inaudible exchange before Combeferre went to leave, his hand coming up to touch Courfeyrac’s shoulder in farewell, a fluid, comfortable gesture that spoke of a closeness. And Grantaire noted the way Courfeyrac’s smile widened. The cold seemed to have made his cheeks pink. 

“Professor Longbottom is the coolest.” Courfeyrac said when he’d eventually joined them, flopping down into a free seat and beginning to worm his way out of his scarf, “The way he resisted the Death Eaters teaching here! How he led Dumbledore’s Army from inside Hogwarts!” 

“You should marry him.” Grantaire informed him. 

“He’s regrettably, almost definitely straight.” Courfeyrac sighed in mock sorrow, before moving on, “What are we doing with our free period, then?”

“Library.” Said Eponine glumly from her corner of the desk, “I haven’t even looked at that Ancient Runes essay.”

“Same.” Marius said brightly, looking up from his battered copy of _New Theory of Numerology._ “I was going to do it in our free period at the end of today, if you want to join me?”

Eponine revitalized at this prospect considerably.

“Well, I’m going to give Hagrid a hand with the Knarls he’s got for the fourth years.” Feuilly grinned, stretching his arms above his head, “They keep eating the cabbages, apparently.”

“Nerd.” Bahorel said, who had walked up to them in time to hear this comment. 

Whilst Feuilly grabbed Marius’s _New Theory of Numerology_ and proceeded to hit Bahorel on the arm with it, Eponine handed Grantaire some of the Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum they had managed to save since the food trolley on the train. 

By the time the bell rang for the start of the second lesson, violet bubbles were bobbing lazily along the ceiling, and Feuilly and Bahorel had both been hit a lot by a _New Theory of Numerology,_ which was an unfortunately large volume. 

“Let’s see what the fates have in store for me this week.” Bossuet said cheerfully, clambering to his feet and hitting his shin against the table leg in the process. 

Grantaire had not yet been quite able to work out whether Bossuet’s taking Divination was some form of precaution for his seemingly continual ill luck, or whether it was some ironic form of humour. He certainly predicted his many imminent disasters with unusual relish. 

Whilst Jehan and Bossuet began the walk to the Divination classroom, Marius left for Arithmancy, and Feuilly for the grounds, and the remaining five of them decided to head to the Great Hall, in an attempt to find the only other person with a free period. They left the bubblegum bouncing off the arched ceiling, which the elderly caretaker, Filch, would no doubt not be best pleased at. Grantaire’s sympathy was not much engaged after he’d been given detention by him for slapping a suit of armour about the face when it refused to stop singing ‘Ding Dong Merrily on High’. 

As expected, Enjolras was in the hall, seated at the Ravenclaw table now and reading a newspaper. His Screech Owl was at his elbow, pecking hopefully at some toast he had evidently saved for it from breakfast. It looked at Grantaire as they approached; its round eyes narrowed and its pale plumage ruffled, and Grantaire was forcefully reminded of its owner.

Enjolras looked up as they approached, and the figures in the photos on the paper below him began to wave angrily, apparently not keen on being ignored.

“Flitwick told me the eagle knocker informed him some Gryffindors and a Slytherin tried to get into the Ravenclaw common room earlier.” He said, a small trace of humour in his eyes that Grantaire took down to rebellion against houses and their off-limit common rooms.

“Imagine that.” Eponine said dryly, flopping down on the bench and propping her head in her hands. Grantaire followed suit, sitting down on the table and resting his legs on the bench, casting his eyes about the hall. 

Enjolras returned to the newspaper, thumbing through it, 

“Is that _The Daily Prophet_?” Courfeyrac asked, leaning forwards on his elbows to see it better from his seat.

“Euryalus just brought it.” Enjolras said, and Grantaire swallowed a snort with difficulty at the reminder of the owl’s name.

“I thought you hated it?” Musichetta questioned, 

“It’s nice to know what the biased and deceptive papers are saying.” Enjolras replied, rather hotly, sounding personally offended by the inevitable corruptibility of the media.

“Their prejudices are truly shocking and new-fangled.” Grantaire commented, hoping the sarcasm he’d laced the remark with was the dramatic side of dripping. 

“No matter how consistent an issue it is,” Enjolras responded, calmly turning a page, and not looking up at Grantaire, “It’s still grating, and I’m sure you’d want to change it if you thought you could.”

“No doubt.” Grantaire replied lightly, and Enjolras still didn’t look at him. Perhaps he didn’t trust himself to, not after losing his temper earlier that morning, “But I can’t change it.”

And then Enjolras did look up, and Grantaire was frozen by suddenly being met with those steady, grey eyes, as if a hand had slipped round his heart and pinched it.

“Why do you think that?” He asked, and he seemed to be striving for patience. Grantaire turned to the owl, struggling to hide his grin.

“‘Euryalus, do the gods set this fire in our hearts, or does each man’s fatal desire become godlike to him?’”

The owl hooted, as if it had indeed caught his reference, and Enjolras sighed heavily.

“So my apparent desire to improve the world will prove fatal, will it?” He said, 

“Fatal to your happiness, no doubt.” Grantaire replied with a small, lopsided smile, before sliding off the table, “Do excuse me, I’ve seen some people I need to scrounge a History of Magic essay from.” 

Enjolras watched him head over to a small cluster of people on the Hufflepuff table, and heaved another sigh of frustration,

“Why is he so stubborn?” He asked of no one in particular, “Why can’t he admit that change is possible where there’s enough momentum?”

“For the same reason you won’t say you’re wrong.” Courfeyrac said, “You’re both stubborn mules with your own set opinions. To be honest, most of the time I think he’s acting up to get a rise out of you.”

“ _Why?_ ” 

“Ah good, you’re finished?” Courfeyrac said quickly, and he dragged the paper out from Enjolras’s hands, “The politics are awful, but their ‘blablabla’ page is something else.”

Enjolras let him flip to the gossip section to amuse himself, and begin to segments aloud which Bahorel laughed noisily at (which made Euryalus ruffle his feathers uncertainly), and instead let his eyes rest on Grantaire, who was still with the cluster of Hufflepuffs at their table. He watched as he made them laugh, and felt an odd twinge in the regions of his gut, an almost frustration that he couldn’t share that light-heartedness with him. No, their conversations always seemed to end with Enjolras furious and agitated, and Grantaire would smile that toothy, lopsided smirk that set Enjolras’s temper on edge all the more. 

He was somewhat glad when lunchtime came, and the rest of the group arrived, and food appeared on the table before them. Grantaire re-joined them halfway through, carrying a plate loaded with steak and ale pie and mashed potato, and telling them all about the Hufflepuff fifth year that had asked him to go with her to Madam Puddifoot’s at the Hogsmeade Weekend. As that was the third time he’d told them something along those lines, Enjolras was no longer sure how truthful he was being, and he put that resulting exasperation down to why he was currently stabbing his sprouts with particular relish. 

Courfeyrac was still busy reading out amusing sections of the Daily Prophet, in between mouthfuls of his Cornish pasty, and his quips were getting bitterer as he headed towards the more political section of the newspaper. Bahorel, Musichetta and Bossuet were currently trying to add some spice to Bossuet’s cauliflower, each prodding it with their wands and shouting ‘Adicio Condictus.’ The cauliflower seemed to be remaining determinedly bland. Combeferre appeared to be coming out of a small reverie he had been under, and turned to Enjolras, and the two of them spent the next half an hour debating the usefulness of Veritaserum, and ultimately rejecting the morality of using it in Wizengamot trials. 

The bell to signify the end of lunch rang just as the cauliflower ignited, and they all exited the table fairly swiftly as a result. All of them, spare Combeferre, Musichetta, Bossuet and Bahorel, had Charms for the next hour and a half, so they headed out the hall and out towards the Grand Staircase, where the interwoven network of moving staircases were framed by thousands of portraits that winked, laughed and called out to them as they passed. 

Grantaire was first onto the staircase that currently led to thin air, and he flopped back against its stone railing and let out a long sigh as they all crammed onto the steps, and felt the usual slow judder as the stairs began to swing across towards the second floor landing. 

“I hope we’re turning vinegar to wine again.” He said, as Feuilly decided to wrap him in a large, rather violent looking hug. “I’m thirsty.” 

For some reason, he flicked a glance at Enjolras as he finished speaking, but Enjolras couldn’t make out much more of his expression, as Feuilly’s hand suddenly went onto Grantaire’s face.

Feuilly and Grantaire continued their odd form of affectionate wrestling up onto the second flight of staircases, whereupon Courfeyrac joined in. The staircase swung jerkily, and Grantaire, at the front of it, slipped forwards, and Enjolras found his own hand whipping out and grabbing Grantaire’s arm. 

Grantaire, steadied several centimetres from the edge of the stairs, blinked, and took in Enjolras’s hand still clasped around his upper arm. His eyes flicked quickly up to his face, seeming to be searching for some expression, that Enjolras had no idea if he was successful in. A second or two passed, the staircase gave a soft bump as it aligned with the third floor, and Grantaire’s face broke into a grin.

“Got you worried.” He smirked, before releasing himself and hopping onto the third floor landing. And Enjolras was left to reflect that Grantaire’s smile didn’t always seem to meet his eyes. 

Much to what Enjolras imagined as Grantaire’s sure-to-be dismay, they weren’t continuing their work on turning vinegar to wine in class that day. Elderly Professor Flitwick had them conjuring water into the goblets placed in front of them, which was a liquid Enjolras was sure Grantaire would be far less enthusiastic about.

He had found it hard to concentrate all morning, despite his lack of lesson time, and trying to perfect the charm came slowly, through the maze of his distracted mind. He was abnormally and irritatingly conscious of Grantaire two desks down from him, waving his wand lazily in the hand movement Flitwick had illustrated on the blackboard. He felt he could still feel Grantaire’s robes on the tips of his fingers, and the corner of his mind was showing him, as if it were a reel from old-fashioned Muggle movies being replayed; the surprised expression on Grantaire’s face, as if it were some shock that Enjolras cared, before his face reverted to the usual smirk he wore when confronted with Enjolras.

It seemed strange, Enjolras brooded, as Feuilly next to him filled his goblet with clear water for the third time, strange that in such a large circle of friends, he and Grantaire were so unable to put the same term on their own relationship. They had seemed at odds since they had first met, whenever that had been. Enjolras couldn’t remember the exact moment the people who now meant so much to him entered his life, only that they had, and he was immeasurably glad of it. 

They seemed to be on different wavelengths, he and Grantaire, each treading some constant, unswayable path parallel to one another, but never quite meeting. Grantaire’s playful yet sceptical nature irked Enjolras, who could see the inconsistency between those two traits, and was certain of an insincerity in Grantaire’s declared impartiality of the state of the world and its inhabitants. And whatever Grantaire thought of _him_ , Enjolras had not quite been able to construe. And whilst six years might have seemed to prove sufficient to give him some clarity, he had found they had only given him a slight indication of Grantaire and the thoughts that moved inside his head, only guessed at by the expressions in his eyes, beneath the tangles of his dark hair.

The lesson passed with Enjolras’s thoughts far from creating water, and the rain swept in over the castle again; pattering against the windowpane with the promise of continuing throughout the afternoon. Courfeyrac grew more and more frustrated throughout the course of the lesson as the goblet before him kept refilling itself with rather strong smelling murky water, and Marius, as he got up to leave at the end of the lesson, knocked into the tall, pretty Gryffindor girl who sat at the other aisle of desks. Enjolras missed their sudden halt, and the way Marius’s mouth dropped open, and the way Cosette’s face turned scarlet. 

His mind felt more focused during Defence Against the Dark Arts, as he took in the theory of several counter-jinxes and hexes that spidered their way in chalk over the blackboard at the wave of Professor Lamock’s wand. It had long been the class he had deemed as most useful, and Professor Lamock’s youth and her straying somewhat from the Ministry syllabus only added to his liking of it. Apparently not quite so enthralled, Bahorel and Eponine ploughed their way through a pack of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans; in muted whispers each provoking the other to eat the more hazardously coloured ones, which culminated in Bahorel’s consuming of a phlegm flavoured one which reduced the two of them to silent hysterics. 

The castle felt even darker as he headed with Combeferre and Joly to Muggle Studies; their last lesson of the day. The rain had now started to pound on the windows, far more than the soft patter of raindrops that had been the background noise of that morning. The brief glimpses of the grounds through the tall windows along the corridor on the first floor showed the thick haze of clouds had descended lower, blurring indistinctly with the lake; the mountains in the distance lost; creating the eerie feeling that the school was afloat. He didn’t envy Feuilly, Bossuet, Bahorel, Musichetta, Grantaire and Courfeyrac the next hour and a half they would spend in Care of Magical Creatures, outside by Hagrid’s Hut. Enjolras rather regretted taking the seat by the window for the class; which was on the outer wall of the castle rising high against the lake, and his focus on the lesson (‘Muggles and “the Internet”’) was diverted by the torrents of rain cascading onto the iron grey stretch of water outside, pounding on its surface, the wind driving it as if it were rough seas. The draft from edges of the thin glass spiked goosepimples on his arms, and more than once Combeferre had to nudge him with his elbow when a question was put to him.

He was therefore rather glad when, at last, the final bell rang, and they could leave, across the first floor corridor, through the arching doors (which liked to be politely asked permission before use) and down the marble staircase to the Entrance Hall, and into the Great Hall that smelt promisingly of dinner.

The six that had just had Care of Magical Creatures were already there, ladling copious amounts of warm Shepherd’s Pie onto their plates. They looked as if they had been swimming in the lake instead of attending a class.

“Fun lesson?” Combeferre asked, with an impressively straight face as he took as seat beside them. The look Courfeyrac sent him; half his face hidden in his drenched scarf, seemed to limit the amount of humour he could find in it.

“We had a _grand_ time.” Grantaire said on Courfeyrac’s behalf, and Enjolras felt his own eyes lingering on the curls that were plastered to Grantaire’s cheeks, slowly sending rivulets down the side of his face.

Without so much as a comment, Joly took out his wand, and gave it a tired flick in their direction. Enjolras felt a rush of warm air graze over him, and next moment, his friends looked far drier. Courfeyrac had stopped shivering. 

“Oh.” Bossuet said. 

“Thank you.” Feuilly said meekly, through a mouthful of carrots. 

Eponine and Marius joined them a moment later, both weighed down by an armful of library books. 

“We left Prouvaire in the library.” Eponine grinned, dumping her stack of books onto the table with a bang that caused several second years nearby to look round in alarm. “He’s having a love affair with the goddess Cliodna and her otherworldly birds at the moment.”

“I look forward to the poetry.” Courfeyrac grinned, before noticing that Marius hadn’t quite seated himself, but had his legs either side of the bench, as if he had made to sit down but forgotten to do so. His eyes were fixed at something over Enjolras’s shoulder, and his cheeks were flushed.

“Marius, my little crumpet, you’re hovering.”

“Oh.” Marius said, re-animated by Courfeyrac’s words, and inelegantly put his other leg over the bench, and slowly sat down, his eyes flicking back to the spot he had just been staring at. Mildly curious, Enjolras turned to look over his shoulder, and through the shoulders of some Gryffindor seventh years, saw Cosette. She was currently chatting with a girl on her left, but the pink of her cheeks seemed to suggest she had some idea she was being stared at. 

“What’s wrong, Marius?” Joly asked him, with all the concern of someone weighing up potential maladies. 

Marius didn’t answer immediately, and seemed to fix his eye on the bowl of nearby broccoli with difficulty. Then, he let out a low mumble, which sounded enormously like ‘Cosette’.

“Ha!”

The loud exclamation from Grantaire made Enjolras start. He flicked him an irritated glance, and decided to focus his own attention on eating. Unobservant of one of the members of his audience’s annoyance, Grantaire appeared to have found his stride.

“Marius is in love!” He grinned, leaning forwards on the table, regardless of his dinner, his hands clasping the crook of his arms as his elbows slipped forwards on the smooth table, “Up springs glittering Eros, like a tempest as he pierces you with darts! Look at you sitting there now increasing your pain with the fumes of your sighs! You poor, raw recruit of love, lost and speared by an arrow’s wound. Magic to make the sanest man go mad.” 

He concluded this rambling speech with a sip of pumpkin juice.

“How many things did you just reference?” Joly asked, somewhat despairingly, 

“It’s a love story, baby, just say yes.” Grantaire finished dryly, and returned to his shepherd’s pie, still smirking. 

Meanwhile, Courfeyrac had seemed to swell with each word Grantaire had spoken, and he now turned to Marius, and cupped his face with his hands, 

“I’m so _proud_.”

“I’m regretting mentioning it.” Marius mumbled, pink-faced.

Courfeyrac spent the rest of dinner trying to persuade Marius to go and talk to Cosette, much to Enjolras’s growing irritation. He only stopped when Combeferre mildly suggested he do so, just as Bahorel got up to leave early for his Quidditch practice, woefully calling out farewell in such a loud voice he attracted the attention of half the hall.

Grantaire seemed thoroughly amused by Marius’s apparent affections, and when they finally got up to wend their individual ways back towards their dormitories, he flung an arm about Marius’s shoulders, as if Marius’s woes were something he was well-versed in. Something Enjolras heavily doubted; from Grantaire’s scepticism and the fact that he had never seemed taken with anyone for more than a half hour at a time. 

He caught Enjolras’s eye as they made to head out the double doors and into the Entrance Hall. Joly’s spell had dried his hair so that his tangled head of curls looked wilder than normal. His face looked pale, dark shadows spanning beneath his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept well in a while, and his thin lips were set into the half-smirk that he so often wore. 

“Mighty Slytherins first, of course,” He grinned, giving a grand arm gesture towards the oak doors, his other hand still clasped on Marius’s robes. Enjolras shook his head slightly at him as he conceded, half amused, half exasperated.

They went their separate ways once out in the Entrance Hall, the ceiling spanning up towards the rafters they couldn’t make out from there on the ground; torchlight flickering in brackets, the Grand Staircase just visible over the top of the marble steps that rose towards it. Courfeyrac, Musichetta and Bossuet went up the marble staircase, heading towards the upper floors, and Gryffindor Tower; Combeferre at their side as he headed for the Ravenclaw Common Room. A symphony of loud goodbyes came from Courfeyrac, fading as they went out of sight, although Enjolras was fairly sure he could still hear his voice echoing on the staircases. Joly and Feuilly began to walk towards the corridor that led down a small flight of steps, and towards the Hufflepuff Common Room. Grantaire, at last releasing Marius, gave Eponine a farewell hug, and headed after them, Marius hurrying after him. 

Eponine seemed a little less boisterous than usual that evening, but their descent down the stone steps to the dungeons was still punctured by a verbal stream of comments, from remarks about her Ancient Runes essay, to the conditions for the first Quidditch match of the season. She was just telling him how Marius was going to lend her his copy of _Modern Magical History_ as they arrived at the stone wall that marked the entrance to the Slytherin Common Room. She left Enjolras at the stairs that led towards the girls’ dormitories, and Enjolras headed to his own room, past the tapestries telling the deeds of Medieval Slytherins and into the small room he shared with the other sixth year students. He suddenly felt the absence of the large group of people he was so constantly near as he clambered into his four-poster bed; the green bed sheets glimmering from the lake rippling on the other side of the water-tight windows. 

He’d taken out _The Muggle Conspiracy_ from the restricted section that day out of morbid curiosity, but an hour in he found it was everything the title suggested and reading it made him far too furious to even consider sleeping. He flung it across his bed instead, letting it slide off and hit the floor, before settling back and casting his eyes to the green canopy above him, glinting in the lake light. 

The eerie glow of the lake gave him the constant feeling that he was underwater when he lay in this bed; as if he were lying on the bottom of the sea, too tired to swim upwards as the currents washed over him. He felt it wasn’t far unlike the way he felt even above ground, when the sun was on his skin, or the wind sharp and cold as it knotted his hair. That constant, frustrating, drowning feeling of wanting the world to be so different from the way it was, and the occasional exhaustion as it resolutely stayed the same. 

But there were at least others who felt it too, he considered, which made it both worse and comforting. He’d seen Courfeyrac, so gentle and kind, reduced to inconsolable fury, and heard Combeferre express his frustrations in a voice that had shaken.

But then there was Grantaire. Grantaire, who mocked, and scorned, and set hooded eyes on Enjolras in a way he could not understand. Grantiare, who thought every effort futile, and yet seemed to speak of love with a warmness and a sympathy. Unless that too had been a sarcasm Enjolras had missed. He thought of him now, siphoning out the green coverings above him and instead conjuring Grantaire’s face in his mind, along with the genuine smile he’d given Enjolras at breakfast that morning. That had set some twisted feeling inside him, he reflected, the knowledge that Grantaire could be amiable instead of set to rile him. Perhaps that was why he lost his temper so often with him; that amongst the frustration he felt with Grantaire’s personality, he felt oddly jilted that with him, and him alone, Grantaire’s warmth could change as quickly at this northern weather. That with him alone, Grantaire was some half-stranger, as they trod around one another, too harsh in their words for their steps to be cautious. That after all this time, they alone were still not friends.

When he finally fell asleep, at some point when the snores of one of the other sixth years was drifting through the room, before he pushed it from his mind, Enjolras was left to momentarily consider exactly _why_ he had been so distracted all afternoon, and to that he came up answerless, but at the same time, somehow, he felt oddly dizzy.


	2. the nights are sleepless, and thoughts flutter their wings

The rain faded throughout the course of the night, back across the high mountains that, when morning crept up to the castle, were set pale yellow against the rising sun. The morning light spread over the school, turning cross-hatched, arching windows to gold, and dripping eaves and water-stained roof tiles to pale white.

Grantaire had seen it; had watched the moonlight scatter across the ceiling of his dormitory, rushing in and out of being as the clouds about the turrets and towers thickened and waned as he stayed awake, always aware that, yet again, he couldn’t sleep. He would have thrown back the covers, have snuck out the dormitory if he had dared. Out to the corridor beyond the common room and up the nearest spiralling staircase, away from the ground and up towards the Astronomy Tower, and off to a small railed bridge that led across to the smaller tower beside it. He would do that; had often seen mornings move in that way; seen the sky leak with new, light colours around the old stone of the castle. He’d watch the figures of Greek mythology now set in stars high above him, and see them fade with the coming dawn, and on those nights that turned to early mornings, he wouldn’t feel so exhausted; so heavy with the burden of things he couldn’t quite list in simple words, but things that felt as if his very bones were weights that seemed to sink him down tirelessly. 

But he hadn’t dared to move from his bed; his mind had not been reckless enough, so he’d lain there with the gathering light that brought colour once more to the hanging plants and pale ochre walls, and waited for Marius’s muted snoring to cease, and for Joly’s shuffling feet to be heard as he went to pour himself a glass of water. Then he could sit up, and stretch his tired, aching limbs and pull a smile onto his face as if it were another step of getting dressed. 

His jumper was frayed and old, and still too big for him. He’d bought it in the second year, when all the optimism of future growth spurts had clouded his judgement. He’d calculated it would fit him perfectly by fifth year, and the money would be well spent. But now, in his sixth year dormitory, he pulled it down over thin wrists and hollowed collarbones, and reflected that it was yet another example of the futility of optimism. 

The smell of breakfast was their entourage all the way to the hall, the proximity to the kitchens sending forth the scent of bacon, honeyed porridge and toast.

The four long tables had no need to be lit by candlelight today, and the morning sunshine shone weakly through a hazy sky, and settled about the shoulders of Enjolras, who was sitting at the Hufflepuff table alone. 

“Good morning, radiant Helios.” Grantaire said before he lost the daring to do so, not looking at Enjolras as he seated himself further down the table, as if to distance himself. As if that cause hadn’t been lost long ago.

“Good morning.” Enjolras said after a moment, his tones slightly strained, and Grantaire could feel his eyes on him before Joly spoke,

“Where’s Eponine?”

“She’s with _him_.” Enjolras replied, apparently now diverted from Grantaire, and he sent a look over his shoulder towards the Slytherin table, his dark eyebrows contracting in a way that spoke of an intense dislike. Oddly, Grantaire mused before turning to see who Enjolras had indicated, it was an expression that had never been turned on him.

Montparnasse, a Slytherin seventh year whose finely boned features gave him a look of delicate beauty, was currently sitting next to Eponine, a hand playing with the rose he’d pinned to his robes. He was whispering something to her that had her smirking. His eyes flickered over to the five of them watching him, and he sent them a careless wink.

“Git.” Feuilly said casually, spooning himself a bowl of porridge. “Did I tell you he tried to hex me on the train when I tried to tell him Ever-Bashing Boomerangs weren’t allowed?”

Grantaire said “They’re not?” at the same time Joly mock-hissed “Preeefect.” Feuilly sent a bit of porridge in Joly’s direction.

Courfeyrac, Musichetta and Bahorel joined them soon after that, with the news that Bossuet had overslept again and would be joining them shortly. Bahorel was sporting several bruises on his arms from the Quidditch practice session the night before, owed to a nasty hit from a Bludger, but he cheerfully informed them that Gryffindor would be crushing Hufflepuff in the first match of the year. He was met with a storm of catcalls from Grantaire, Feuilly and Joly. Marius was a little distracted in staring wistfully at the Gryffindor table, where Cosette was sat with a friend.

Jehan and Combeferre arrived as Grantaire finally decided to force some food into his mouth and get rid of that stale taste of sleeplessness. Jehan, he noticed, had dark shadows spanning under his eyes. He looked as tired as Grantaire felt.

“I lost Ravenclaw ten house points last night.” He said, somewhat brightly, sliding onto the bench next to Grantaire, “I was in the library until two o’clock in the morning. Nobody noticed I was there until Mrs Norris showed up. I ran away straight into Flitwick.” 

“How is that cat _still_ alive?” Courfeyrac asked, pouring Jehan some orange juice, “Professor Longbottom said it was around in _his_ time.”

“It’s entirely possible that she’s part Kneazle.” Combeferre told him, looking up from the crossword on the back of the packet of Pixie Puffs, “Which would explain her intelligence.” 

Courfeyrac had listened to him, eyes locked on Combeferre’s, his lips quirked in a half-smile. But he didn’t respond. 

Bossuet rushed into the hall, his tie half completed and flying out behind him like a red and golden streamer, just as the owls began to sweep in with the post, the sound of beating wings puncturing the constant hum of conversation. Three newspapers dropped just beside Enjolras’s plate, and Euryalus landed soon after, looking rather pleased with himself.

A small package dropped onto Grantaire’s elbow with a heavy clump, and for a wild moment, he thought he’d received something. But then Bahorel gave a squawk of happiness from next to him, and plucked it up, and Grantaire wondered why, after all this time, he still managed to feel some sickening swoop of disappointment.

Bahorel’s delivery turned out to be an order from Honeydukes; a brown paper package of a new sour range of Fizzing Whizbees, which he held promptly out to Grantaire, who still slightly shaken, accepted two of the bright pink sweets.

It turned out the Fizzing Whizbees were exceptionally sour, which woke Grantaire’s mouth up rather effectively, and caused his jaw to sting painfully as he set them either side of his tongue.

“How are you eating those this early in the morning?” Musichetta asked them both, looking as if she were in pain at the prospect. 

“They’re invigorating.” Bahorel said thickly, his eyes scrunched up. 

“It’s five to nine,” Combeferre announced, checking his watch, “We should probably get going to Ancient Runes, it will probably take five minutes to climb all the staircases.”

“I’m too full.” Courfeyrac moaned, “Can someone carry me?”

“Jehan will.” Bahorel grinned, still grimacing through a Fizzing Whizbee.

Jehan, who, whilst being five foot ten, was also built like a birch twig, decided he was above responding to that suggestion and merely gave Bahorel a rather frightening look from over the top of his cup of tea. But Grantaire was mildly distracted as, with a swooping sensation that felt as if the surface below him had been pulled away suddenly, he remembered for some uncountable time that morning that today was Wednesday. 

And sure enough, as Jehan, Courfeyrac, Combeferre and Marius all got to their feet to head to Ancient Runes, Enjolras set down the Muggle newspaper he’d had sent from home, and turned his gaze on Grantaire.

“Want to go to History of Magic?” He asked, his face set in the usual intensity that seemed to continually drape itself across his features.

“Not at all,” Grantaire replied with a wide grin to cover up the way his hands felt clammy once more, because today was Wednesday and he was going to spend its morning sitting beside Enjolras with none of their friends to divert his attention, because no one else had been so masochistic as to take History of Magic. Enjolras took it because he solemnly believed a knowledge of the past entwined itself with the power and strength to aid the present. 

Grantaire might have believed that too. But mainly he believed in Enjolras.

He got to his feet despite what he’d said, (because how many times did he actually mean the words that came from his mouth) and reached for his bag that he’d flung under the table, whilst Enjolras waited for him, and him alone, his arms folded and his expression distracted, his mind on some seemingly distant thought. 

Grantaire ended up knocking his bag against the table in his departure, and upended his unfinished goblet of orange juice. It seeped over the glossy, polished table, spreading like spilled sunshine.

They didn’t speak on the short journey to the History of Magic classroom on the first floor; a small classroom lined by large, arching windows that looked out over the grounds, and to the Forbidden Forest, its leaves dark in the early morning light. Professor Binns was already there, but then again, Grantaire didn’t think he ever actually _left_ his classroom. He supposed diversions must be somewhat limited when you’d been dead for over one hundred years.

There was always the same hesitation, Grantaire mused, as he and Enjolras stood in the doorway to the classroom, not quite able to move towards one of the many empty tables that allowed two people to sit at. Always that awkwardness that came with their relationship, an uncertainty; a line that had been drawn that always stretched invisible before them, that neither of them dared to broach. And then it would pass, like now, as Grantaire forced himself forwards, and sat four desks from the front (in the interest of optimizing undiscovered sleeping time). And then, after a moment, Enjolras actually followed him, stopping at the desk, and settling into the seat by his side, his bag hitting the floor with a finalizing clarity that made Grantaire’s heart lunge rebelliously in his chest. They’d been at this all eight lessons they’d had of the subject this year; eight lessons of hesitation and quick glances, and Grantaire feeling his body could cave in on itself from the host of emotions that were burning in every part of his being.

He didn’t speak as Enjolras slowly extricated a notebook and a quill from his bag, instead focusing his attentions on grinning at the people he knew well who greeted him as they walked past to take their seats. Enjolras slid down slightly in his seat to check the inner workings of his bag, before muttering something under his breath that sounded wonderfully like an expletive.

“May I borrow your ink?” He asked in a quiet voice, and Grantaire was too slow to look away from his face, too slow in assuming that mask he had (he _had_ ) to wear around Enjolras, that protective mask that just made everything so much easier, and so much more painful. He was looking at him now, looking at how the morning sunlight streaming tentatively in through the windows was tangling in his curling hair and settling on his fair eyelashes. He could see the veins of blue in his grey eyes, and the veins spidering soft purple on his eyelids, as if he really were carved from marble. 

“You’re even more optimistic than I thought if you’re seriously considering note-taking for the next hour and a half.” Grantaire told him with a smile. _An hour and a half_. Of sitting next to Enjolras, their elbows brushing, and the smell of him, fresh and clean, filling his nostrils. Enjolras inhabiting so many of his senses. 

Enjolras, much to his surprise, smiled slightly at his words, as he took the glass bottle of ink Grantaire was now offering him. Grantaire noticed how the skin at the corners of his eyes creased slightly with the movement.

Grantaire would not have been able to concentrate on a lesson filled with explosives and bright flashing lights under such circumstances like Enjolras sitting next to him, inches away. It was justifiable, then, that he paid little attention to Professor’s Binns’s droning, and instead watched Enjolras from the corner of his eye, as he scrawled notes on the wildcat strikes of gargoyles in 1911, the tip of his quill scratching on the parchment. 

It was only when Enjolras flicked a glance towards him that Grantire hastily dragged his own notebook from his bag and began to idly doodle on it, the gargoyle strikes passing by him unheard. He felt Professor Binns could enlighten him little on the subject he’d studied already, except perhaps for a first-hand account, which even he knew was perhaps a little rude to enquire after.

He went to dip his quill in the ink to continue a doodle of Bahorel chasing a Bludger, at the same time Enjolras’s hand moved to do the same, no doubt to continue his notes on gargoyle unrest in the early twentieth century.

Their hands collided and Grantaire recoiled as if he had been burnt, which, he considered humourlessly as Enjolras actually seemed to look mildly offended at the reaction, close contact with Enjolras often seemed to feel like.

“By all means,” He whispered, sweeping a small, mock-gallant gesture towards the ink pot, “I’m sure your need is mightier.”

“Why do you always do that?” Enjolras asked quietly, dipping the tip of his quill into the ink all the same.

“Do what?”

“Mock me.” Enjolras flicked his eyes towards him, and Grantaire determinedly stared back at the doodle. Bahorel was currently waving his arm at a Bludger that had not yet been shaded. “And belittle yourself in the process.”

Dust motes were currently dancing in the sunlight that was falling across their desk. It passed over Grantaire’s hands, leaving the rest of him in shade, and he gave a small, humourless smile.

“I’m a creature of habit, Enjolras.” He returned, in the same low voice, “I tread comfortable patterns.”

“I’m actually sure you just say whatever comes into your head, whether you think it’s real or not.” Enjolras muttered back. His quill was poised over the last sentence he’d noted down, but he was no longer writing.

“‘Mere words!’” Grantaire quoted with a smirk, leaning back in his chair, “‘Was there anything so real as words?’”

“Are you listening, Granville?” Professor Binns’s grating voice drifted across their whispered conversation, directed, Grantaire presumed, at himself.

“Of course I am, Professor.” 

They fell back into silence again, and Grantaire might have noticed Enjolras’s hand was still suspended over his parchment, the quill unmoving, if he hadn’t been resolutely determined to look anywhere but at Enjolras. A droplet of ink began to work its way slowly down the pen’s nib. 

Enjolras leant back in his seat a few minutes later, setting himself level with Grantaire, and Grantaire doggedly studied the way the weak sun lit the window pane, making the lead gleam. 

“All I was trying to say,” He said quietly, and Grantaire suffered internal rebellion as he quickly snuck a look at him. Enjolras’s eyes were trained, unseeingly, on Professor Binn’s, “Is that you don’t seem to think much of yourself.”

Grantaire tried to tone down the volume of the snort he emitted, but he didn’t think he was particularly successful, as the girl in front of them sent him a concerned look over her shoulder.

“Well,” He said, troubling to keep his voice down as bitter sarcasm took over, “Isn’t _that_ a revelation.” 

Enjolras seemed slightly confused at his response, and after a moment, he randomly jotted down the date 1911, something that had appeared several times throughout his notes, and Grantaire was fairly sure he’d noted it down just for something to do. He watched the ink seep and dry on the parchment; glistening.

He set down his quill, in no mood now to continue his idle drawing, and let out a muted, drawn out sigh, fixing his eyes on the window once more. The trees in the forest were waving lazily in the cold breeze, the mountains beyond them tall and proud as ever. A cluster of birds shot out from the tangles of the forest’s leaves, heading for the horizon and away from Hogwarts, as if there was somewhere they would rather be. Grantaire had never shared that sentiment. 

Enjolras’s words had irked him; he’d taken them as patronizingly spoken, laced with the sympathy he’d sometimes see in his friends’ eyes; the kind that made nausea swirl in his stomach. To fight so hard to smile and force sharp jokes and to _still_ be regarded as an object of pity made him want to throw things; made him want to hurl every possession he owned from that secluded, safe part of the Astronomy Tower, and his heart and his mind along with it.

Enjolras didn’t attempt to speak to him for the rest of the lesson, and when the bell rang for the break Grantaire was quick on his feet, his things already packed, moving off from his seat before Enjolras could say a word.

He managed to surround himself with enough people that he soon lost Enjolras in the crowd coming from their different lessons, and let himself go with them, talking and provoking laughter from the familiar faces of people he’d known for so many years. 

He spent the break in the Clock Tower Courtyard with a cluster of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, taking turns with the Fanged Frisbee one of them had snuck into the castle. It was sent snarling around the quiet cloisters; snapping at the ivy lacing itself through the arching windows and arcades.

The great clock towering above them soon sounded eleven, its chimes reverberating through Grantaire’s ears, and as the people around him began to bid farewell and head towards their classes, he was overcome with the slowly tangling and crippling feeling that he couldn’t face Defence Against the Dark Arts, not today. He was tired, so tired, and the thought of sitting in that classroom, forcing his mind to focus on yet another dark shadow this gloomy world possessed was an exhausting concept. There was no one there to contradict him, no one to dispel those sickly ideas, and so when he slid off the arch he’d been perching on for the break, he didn’t go into the Clock Tower and head out along the third floor, and towards Defence Against the Dark Arts, but instead found himself wandering around that old courtyard.

The sun afforded the place little warmth, thrown as it was into shade by high walls, and as the clock counted the minutes far above him, he slid into the shadow of the Covered Bridge; a free hand running over the wooden spars, brushing against the conifer trees tentatively threading their branches through them. Below him, a ravine gaped, trees tangled amongst grey rock.

He eventually wandered out amongst the tall stones that formed a sundial; the rest of the grounds spanning around him in undulating directions, grass long and faded from summer. And he stopped there, sinking down against one of the rocks worn by age and wind and rain, warm from the sun’s rays. He slumped against it, resting his arms on his knees, and settled back to watch the swaying branches of the trees before him, evergreens that continued on green and lush in defiance of the coming winter. 

The wind here, exposed in the grounds, felt colder, summer warmth gone from air until next year, despite the determined blue sky stretching above him, and he shivered, letting frustration and the anger that he felt towards himself well up and overflow. 

He wished he hadn’t reacted so strongly to Enjolras’s words, hadn’t left himself exposed and raw in front of the very person his façades and self-control existed for. They were there for other reasons of course, but Enjolras, Enjolras had always been someone he needed to guard himself from, constantly needed to walk from on one side of some invisible line he’d set down between them. Hell, not a line, a _wall_. But it wasn’t a thick, impenetrable divide, and Grantaire would catch himself sneaking glances at him, pressing fingers through the cracks in that barrier, and it was like those exposed parts were glazed by fire, as if Enjolras really were some vehement deity.

He was both radiant Helios and rosy-fingered Eos, bringing the golden light of dawn, a new, fresh light that seemed to fall gentle, yet somehow burning onto his own grey, tired skin. And he was tired, so tired, in every way he could think of. And Enjolras, he both doubled that sentiment, but also made some hint of revitalisation pierce his veins, pounding some kind of wonderment that soared over the doubt and exhaustion he felt so riddled with. Enjolras, his glances, his words, his voice, all were like pepper-up potion flowing through his veins, warming him and causing his mind and heart to cloak itself around Enjolras, wrapping around him as if he were a spine, disguising his own silent begging for acceptance around harsh words and fatuous remarks because the fear Enjolras kicked up so unsuspectingly in his wake was far more than Grantaire could ever handle. That fear of what Enjolras had done to him, so easily, so unknowingly. That admiration of what he himself lacked was as powerful as any curse or hex, an admiration thrown in amongst a reeling combination of veneration and esteem that had slipped unbidden into every fibre of his being, pumping through his veins like blood. It was like bleeding out on a high that stemmed pain with ecstasy. 

The renewed wind bit at the exposed parts of his skin, reminding him it was late October. He pulled his robes further about himself, running a cold hand over his eyes and thinking longingly of his bed back in the Hufflepuff Common Room. It always seemed warm there, always lit by sunlight despite any grey above the castle.

He sat in that spot, half concealed by the jutting stone and overgrown weeds, until he heard the clock shudder, gears working, before it struck the half hour. After a time, he heard the voices of the students who had been at Care of Magical Creatures beginning to wend their way up the sloping grounds to the castle, and the Great Hall for lunch. He waited as they passed, his legs numb from staying still so long, his fingers restless as they drummed some invisible beat on his knees.

Only when the last fourth year had stepped onto the bridge did he slowly get to his feet, movements languid and slow. That same exhaustion that never went away. 

The cool shelter that came with re-entering the castle felt oddly calming as he slid through one of the side doors in the entrance to the Clock Tower; the ceiling spanning far above him, and he found himself walking along a deserted corridor, portraits slumbering and muttering quietly to one another.

His route to the hall was lined with long windows that looked over courtyards and roof tiles, sunlight filtering in through their cross-hatched panes and lighting on worn, old rugs and high colonnades. This castle had seemed a maze to him when he had first come to it, but over time it had become familiar, but far quicker it had become the only place he really wished to be. And that was another kind of clarity that made him afraid. 

That crippling need for isolation and idleness nearly threatened to overtake him again when he got to the high, vast doors of the Great Hall, and his eyes lit on the group of friends he so constantly felt he simply decorated through juxtaposition. But Feuilly caught his eye, and waved at him, and he forced his legs forwards, and forced a smile on his face.

“There you are!” Bossuet exclaimed when Grantaire dropped onto the bench opposite him. “I was starting to think you’d got stuck in that vanishing step I fell down last week.”

“That’s certainly what I shall say happened if anyone cares to ask.” Grantaire responded, pulling a dish of casserole towards him and beginning to ladle it into a bowl. “What cheery thing did we learn about today?”

“Dementors.” Joly said glumly, looking up from the pile of notes he was busy compiling, “They’re horrible.”

“But not as horrible as Transfiguration homework.” Bahorel put in, looking up from _A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration_ , his hair on end from numerous run ins with his fingers, “Complications in iguana transfiguration makes no sense at all.”

Grantaire concentrated on eating as Combeferre began to explain to Bahorel the exact complications that existed when transfiguring iguanas. He hadn’t missed Enjolras, sitting a few seats across from him, and he was sure he could feel his gaze on him, not that he dared ascertain it.

He half followed the conversations of his friends, overly conscious of how they were quick to laugh at his weak, interjecting quips, and how none of them pursued any enquiry of where he had been, as if worried at what his answer would be. 

He was relieved when the chime from the Clock Tower announced the end of lunch, and he could get to his feet to head out into the grounds to Herbology, and away from eyes he did not want to meet.

But of course, he somehow ended up looking at Enjolras, as if he were some magnet he was inevitably drawn to, a feeling he’d had for so long he could hardly remember its conception, or a time when it had not existed. 

Enjolras did not look angry as he took Grantaire in, standing on the other side of the stretching house table (Slytherin today). That usual guarded look he wore when conversation began between them was gone too, instead, he simply looked mildly inquisitive, as if studying Grantaire’s face was working out a question he was holding in his mind. Grantaire found he did not like that sentiment; it sent frissons of some cold and sickening feeling along to his gut; the feeling of being observed by someone like _Enjolras_ , and no doubt being found wanting. He hurried forwards after Courfeyrac, passing a hand roughly over his face in some half-hearted effort to force concentration onto his weary mind.

The wind felt pleasantly colder to his face as they began the walk to the greenhouses to spend the next hour and a half, nestled under creeping vines and moss-stained glass. 

Courfeyrac was in a boisterous mood that lesson, joking and laughing, and digging his hands enthusiastically into the pots they were planting young Snargaluffs into, and coating himself in soil in the process. Grantaire watched him, not entirely sure that Courfeyrac could not sense his low mood, and felt a real grin begin to work its way onto his face. 

It seemed to him, that where Enjolras was some burning star, that drew people close and scalded them with his brightness, Courfeyrac shone in quite a different way. There was a gentle warmth to him that seemed to envelope anyone near, a strength and radiance to him that spoke of a deep caring for the people around him, and Grantaire now revelled in it. 

He didn’t miss Courfeyrac leaning over his successfully planted Snargaluff and swiping the pad of his thumb over Combeferre’s cheek, leaving a long streak of soil clinging to his dark skin. 

When the time came to walk back up to the castle, Joly next to him, busy with a scouring charm that lifted dirt from under his fingernails, Grantaire found himself in tentative higher spirits that weren’t quite dampened by the prospect of double Potions with Enjolras.

He and Bahorel had already set up their cauldrons on a desk near one side of the neat rows of dark wood shelves that ran around the Potions classroom; stacked with glass jars and bottles filled with murky and glinting contents, their labels faded and old. The dim light of the classroom, owing to the permanent fumes of curling smoke, and the blue tinted windows that Grantaire felt looked out into the lake, set the room in navy and orange hues. 

Enjolras’s eyes lingered only briefly on Grantaire when they arrived at the desk, his hands pausing in flicking to the page of _Advanced Potion Making_ Professor Mordaunt had drawn up on the chalkboard with a flick of his wand. But then his gaze moved to Combeferre and Courfeyrac, who were busy setting up their cauldrons next to him.

“The Society for the Tolerance of Vampires is reported to be merging with the Society for the Reformation of Hags.” He told them, placing his packet of Porcupine quills next to his textbook. 

“That may give their goals slightly more weight.” Combeferre mused, leaning sideways as he pressed his knuckles into his back. Grantaire, who had also been standing for the past hour or so, shared that dull ache along his spine. “With the Ministry at least.”

“If the Ministry decides it would like to listen.” Enjolras said in what seemed like a forcibly light tone, “You’ve got soil on your face, Combeferre.”

Grantaire had to say that brewing the Elixir to Induce Euphoria was something he could find bitter amusement in, and Bahorel and Joly sufficiently distracted him with Quidditch League talk (the Tutshill Tornadoes had recently overtaken the Montrose Magpies much to Grantaire’s chagrin and Bahorel’s glee) and he was almost able to forget the figure three cauldrons down from him, talking animatedly with Combeferre and Courfeyrac over the advocacy groups of the wizarding world, and ultimately being reprimanded by Combeferre for forgetting to add his Shrivelfig. 

At least, Grantaire _was_ able to forget, until, three quarters of the way up one of the rickety ladders to reach a jar of Sopophorous Beans, he looked down and saw Enjolras standing there, looking at him intently. The following sensation was rather like he’d missed a step and slipped. 

“Oh.” He blurted, before recovering himself a breaking into a toothy grin, “I do hope you’re not peeking up my skirt.” 

Enjolras scowled, and turned a delicate shade of scarlet. 

“I wanted to apologise.” He said, his tone oddly stiff, and Grantaire turned back to the shelf he had been searching, the better to hide his valiantly failing expression. 

“What for, I wonder?” He said in a lightly musing tone, concentrating on the alphabetised contents of the shelf, and not the way his heart was thudding dully in his chest. 

“For this morning,” Enjolras sounded like he’d given this a lot of consideration, and was not going to leave until he’d said whatever he felt he should say, no matter how many comments Grantaire threw in, “I think I offended you.”

Grantaire let out a short bark of laughter, and turned so he was facing him. It was wholly unfair that Enjolras should be parting his lips as he looked up at him. There was an uncertainty flickering across his usually decided face that Grantaire was not fully sure he liked. 

“Do you now?” He smirked, and Enjolras’s look of uncertainty was slowly turning into a look of frustration, “Did you see the tears slowly running down my face? Did-”

“What I’m trying to say,” Enjolras interrupted, eyebrows contracting downwards, “Is that in spite of...everything, I think you’re a good person.” He broke off, and scowled deeper, “A person who should think more of themselves.” 

There was a few seconds of silence as Grantaire let that wash over him, staring incomprehensibly at Enjolras’s face, which was set in a glare as if challenging Grantaire to try to disagree. To disagree with the apparent fact that he, Enjolras, thought Grantaire was not the complete waste of space Grantaire had spent six years believing Enjolras thought he was, and however long convinced of it himself. He wondered abruptly if he was frozen to the ladder. 

“Ok.” He said after a moment, casting around for something, anything, to steer this conversation onto something solid, and old, and dependable, and away from the hyperactive movements of his mind that were spinning him towards dangerous, reeling thoughts. The grin was pulled back onto his face, and he hopped down the three rungs to the floor. 

“I’ll bear your approval in mind when I’m hitting particularly low points.” He said, and he was barely half a metre from Enjolras now, so close he could see a flicker of something in his eyes that turned quickly to that frustration, before he moved quickly off, away back to his cauldron. The roiling liquid inside it was releasing a wave of smoke that warmed the front of his chest. It was not entirely unlike standing before Enjolras, being so hyper-aware of his presence, of every flicker of movement he gave. Of how his heart would beat faster than his cynical mind had ever supposed it could; feeling somehow torn apart but whole; warm, but freezing. 

Enjolras had returned to his own potion, his cheeks flushed and glaring at the Porcupine quills he was spilling into the potion, his knuckles rather white as he held their container. No doubt that particular exchange had not gone quite so smoothly as he had hoped, if he had hoped anything at all, and Grantaire was left pondering why he had even felt the need to say sorry. Harsh words and conversations that had left Grantaire stinging had always been a feature of their turbulent not-even friendship. Enjolras had never seemed to express any regret in his words before. No more than Grantaire had asked forgiveness for the terrible things he had said, no matter how much his treacherous hands would try and shake as he spoke them.

He was stirring his potion for five minutes before he realised he’d forgotten the Sopophorous beans. 

That good mood Grantaire had summoned in Herbology was scattered and confused by the time the six of them that still took Potions began to trudge up the spiralling staircase that led away from the Dungeons and towards the promising smell of dinner.

Joly had chosen to take a hesitant sip of his own Elixir to Induce Euphoria, which had turned out to be rather potent, and he was currently singing ‘A Cauldron Full of Hot Strong Love,’ in a loud voice. Professor Mordaunt had assured him excessive singing was a common side-effect, and that it would wear off in an hour or two.

The food had already appeared on the four long tables by the time they arrived, and Jehan, Bossuet, Eponine, Musichetta, Marius and Feuilly were already crowded around the Gryffindor table, plates piled high with food.

“Is he ok?” Eponine asked with a raised eyebrow in Joly’s direction and he swooped down into a seat, now entering the chorus of ‘You Stole My Cauldron, But You Can’t Have My Heart.’

“His Elixir to Induce Euphoria was a ground-breaking success.” Grantaire supplied, and Bossuet and Musichetta fell about laughing,

“Celestina Warbeck is a national treasure, ‘Chetta.” Joly enthused in a breathless tone, halting his song for a moment to gaze fixatedly at her.

“I’m sure.” Musichetta replied, her lips still twitching. 

Joly serenaded them throughout most of dinner, but when éclairs and ice cream materialized for dessert, his Celestina Warbeck renditions were growing less frequent. 

“I’m disappointed,” Bahorel told him, around a mouthful of éclair, “You have the voice of an angel.”

Grantaire’s limbs were aching with fatigue by the time the desserts disappeared, and students began to clamber to their feet, starting to tread slow feet back towards their dormitories. 

“Who fancies sneaking into Gryffindor Tower with us, then?” Bahorel asked, stretching his vast arms up over his head and yawning grandly,

“I will!” Jehan said brightly, “It saves the long walk to Astronomy tonight.”

“Didn’t the portrait rather lose her temper with you for trying to get in last week?” Combeferre asked, eyes glittering with amusement. 

“She scolded Joly gently.” Bossuet corrected, “With much fondness.”

In the end, it was Grantaire, Joly and Jehan who followed the Gryffindors from the Entrance Hall towards the Grand Staircase. There was a brief pause in the Entrance Hall to bid those who didn't sleep in the towers goodnight, and Grantaire’s eyes flicked towards Enjolras. They hadn’t spoken at all at dinner, each seemingly wrapped in their own thoughts. But Enjolras was looking at him now, his expression unreadable, and Grantaire averted his gaze swiftly.

For some reason, he was sure his ascension up the marble staircase was being observed. 

They stayed a while in that warm common room; its walls covered with worn tapestries and snoozing portraits, the large fire crackling and spitting as they sat before it, backs resting against the long, red settee, the Wizarding Wireless Network warbling softly in the background. 

Grantaire felt his mind soothed with these lazy evenings, when conversations were punctuated by Bahorel’s loud yawns, and Musichetta humming quietly under her breath as her fingers threaded through Joly’s hair. He’d finally stopped singing. It was times like these, slow and gentle times interspersed with a ticking clock and popping fire, when it was hard for Grantaire to let that crippling fatigue wash over him and drown him. He felt, here at least, he could kick out his legs and stay afloat, safe above the water. He could forget all the things he had said, all that he had felt, forget that incapacitating tiredness. And he mused that whilst he had compared Enjolras and Courfeyrac to some radiant fire, perhaps all his friends, in their own ways, provided his life with warm light.

That lasting thought stayed with him throughout the evening, like a firefly captured in a jar, and it was only when the portraits began to start shushing them with firmer conviction that they decided to call it a night, and he trod the long way back to the Hufflepuff Common Room with Joly, dodging creaking floorboards and peering round corners, and that light stayed in his mind, and every so often, it fluttered its wings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a huuuuuge thank you to anyone who's reading this! the lovely comments on the previous chapter had me giddy! Hope you all keep enjoying it eeeee <3  
> my tumblr [is hereee](icarus-drunk.tumblr.com)


	3. the stars are bright, and the wet ground below is hard to walk on

The last two days before the weekend dragged by, in Courfeyrac’s opinion at least.

Professor Mordaunt set them so much work to do for Potions it was all he could do to not shove his belongings off his desk in protest. And double Ancient Runes on Thursday seemed to be twice as long as normal; the clock behind him ticking provocatively slowly as he stared out the nearest window to the hazy sky above the castle, and was every so often nudged back to concentration by Combeferre.

It was the knowledge of waiting for a weekend, and the time apart from lessons it would bring until Monday; and it was finally Friday evening after double Charms, when they were all sat around the Ravenclaw table eating dinner, with renewed rain light on the bewitched ceiling above them, that he finally laid down the idea he’d had two days before. 

“That’s a terrible idea.” Eponine told him flatly, a finger locked in her hair as she wound it, stabbing moodily at her ice cream. 

“It will be _fun_!” Courfeyrac insisted impatiently,

“We’ll definitely get caught.” Joly added from the folds of his scarf, although he looked more amused than put off,

“That’s _why_ it will be fun,” Courfeyrac said, as if it were obvious, “We haven’t all met up in the middle of the night this year yet, and I, for one, intend to change that.”

“Where are we meeting?” Enjolras asked, not looking up from the Muggle newspaper he was currently leaning over, hair curling over his eyes. Courfeyrac liked the odd juxtaposition the newspaper caused with the rest of the hall, with its still pictures and the heavy, serious fonts that stayed resolutely unmoving. 

It caused an unusual echo of home, of where his mother and his sisters lived in that light and airy house in a village so many miles away. It was an echo of everything he had perceived as normal until he had turned eleven years old, of everything he had resigned himself to, accepted without realising there was any alternative. But that was what came with being Muggle born, of spending each summer with only his belongings to remind him of the place he spent so much time in, of the place that had taught him he wasn’t something abnormal or something to be afraid of, but something that could create light and warmth. 

And there sat Enjolras who had never known any different, who sat reading the Muggle newspaper his wizarding parents just about deigned to send on to the son who, they felt, worried about Muggles a little too much. 

“The same, completely impractical location as last year, I suppose?” Bossuet asked enthusiastically, trying to detach lard from his elbow after just having placed it in the butter dish. 

“Did we ever get caught at the boathouse?” Courfeyrac questioned with an indulgent tone, raising an eyebrow and dragging his mind to the present.

“ _Well_ -” Feuilly began, but Courfeyrac decided then was good a time as any to glaze over any detail being sent his way,

“It’s irrelevant. I shall be headed down all those cold, stone steps at ten o’clock tonight and sitting at the edge of our beautiful lake, and if any of my beautiful friends wish to join me they would be very welcome.” 

“Am I really beautiful, Couf?” Grantaire smirked from the end of the table, pretending to blush as one hand tangled in his wild curls.

“Combeferre and I are supposed to be patrolling corridors tonight to ensure students don’t do exactly what we’re doing.” Enjolras said in a lightly exasperated tone, as if Grantaire hadn’t spoken, turning a page of the newspaper as he spoke and failing only slightly in not flicking a glance to where Grantaire was seated a few places down from him. 

Courfeyrac watched the determined way Grantaire took a sip of pumpkin juice, staring squarely ahead of him, and decided their renewed hostility towards one another had not abated since whatever had taken place between them on Wednesday. 

“I have a feeling Courfeyrac is going to say that will be an almost too perfect cover for tonight’s plans.” Combeferre said quietly from opposite, and Courfeyrac looked up at him. 

Combeferre was regarding him with a small smile, looking up from _Magical Hieroglyphs and Logograms_ that he was holding in front of his plate. Courfeyrac suddenly felt an odd, fluttering feeling in his stomach, which made him feel he couldn’t quite manage to finish the rest of his treacle tart.

Fleeting crushes were something he was well-versed in. It was easy for him to be gone for a pair of eyes; a smile; a laugh, but they were transitory, short-lived things that always fizzled like an unexploded firework. (Or a Weasleys’ Wildfire Whizz-bang). 

But what he had been steadily feeling for Combeferre, over a summer where the letters he’d sent had papered his room, and ink had been forever staining his own fingers from his own constant stream of responses, was more akin to a light, growing stronger and brighter. A light he didn’t quite know what to do with. And five years of friendship, one of the best he had ever known, had layered and laced those tentative, resolutely growing feelings with a fear of destroying everything, a fear that was starting to keep him up at night, staring at the red drapes of his canopy bed, and trying to envisage a situation where he could tell one of his greatest friends that maybe, just maybe, he wanted to be an awful lot more. 

Combeferre’s eyes returned to his Ancient Runes book, unaware of the storm he’d just kicked up in Courfeyrac’s mind.

“Precisely.” Courfeyrac said a moment later, realising Combeferre had been talking to him. He shook his head to resume his stride, “No excuses, Enjolras. Just friendship.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes, failing to hide his grin. 

The hall began to empty fifteen minutes later, and, leaving his empty plate (the treacle tart had not stayed ignored for long) Courfeyrac followed the others from their seats, his hands settling on Marius’s shoulders as the two of them went, laughing, towards the Entrance Hall.

At the doors, Marius suddenly came to a jarring halt, and Courfeyrac, stumbling forwards, had to look around to see the source of the abrupt stop.

Cosette was standing to their left, having reached the doors at the same time. She too had stopped, and a blush was creeping over her face as she took in Marius’s frozen expression. The back of his neck had gone pink. 

“Hello, Cosette,” Courfeyrac said loudly, when Marius appeared to be making no move to fill the sudden silence. He swiftly released his hold on Marius’s shoulders. “Are you going to Hogsmeade next weekend?” 

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” She grinned, her eyes flicking to Courfeyrac. Marius made a small squeak,

“I think Marius is trying to say that he looks forward to seeing you there?” Coufeyrac said in a prompting tone, and Marius gave a slight nod.

Cosette laughed, her cheeks still pink, and allowed herself to be swept up in the tide of people streaming out into the Entrance Hall. Courfeyrac squeezed Marius’s shoulder, feeling happier than he had all day, as they followed the rest of their friends from the hall. 

It was with many exaggerated winks and smirks that they all bade one another goodnight, and Courfeyrac bounded alongside Musichetta, Bahorel, Bossuet, Combeferre and Jehan towards the upper floors of the castle. Jehan leant over the side of the stairs to the third floor to gently quote ‘We’ll go no more a-roving,’ to the portrait of Byron. Byron sighed heavily, readjusted his cravat, and seemed to try not to look too pleased. 

“Well, see you tomorrow, of course.” Combeferre said in a deadpan tone as they reached the fifth floor, where he and Jehan would leave for the Ravenclaw Common Room. His eyes skirted Courfeyrac’s, and that fluttering feeling stuck in his throat again. The remaining four of them continued up the creaking, moving stairs to the seventh floor, and Gryffindor Tower. 

A few people were lounging on the red armchairs that scattered the old carpet-strewn floor of the Gryffindor Common Room when they arrived, the WWN playing softly from a radio on a rickety table by the window. A cluster of first years were seated at a small table near them, playing gobstones. The soft clink of one stone hitting the other was extinguished over one gobstone spitting out liquid at one of the players.

There was a loud screech as Courfeyrac clambered through the portrait-hole, and a moment later, his owl dropped from its perch on a tall chest of drawers, and landed on his shoulder, sharp claws digging into his skin.

Hegel had been purchased five years ago at Eeylop’s Owl Emporium in Diagon Alley, when Courfeyrac had been twelve and had finally adapted to the mode of postal delivery in the Wizarding World. He’d gone with Combeferre and Enjolras, with a year of knowing one another behind them, which, with the warmth Courfeyrac emanated, had been perfectly sufficient for the three of them to be close.

Hegel had been sitting next to a slightly smaller, tawny owl, the two of them hooting softly to one another, and after a moments deliberation, Combeferre had bought it. 

The three of them had sat at Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour for an hour, throwing out possible names, until Enjolras had grown tired, and pulled out Combeferre’s copy of _Philosophers of the Enlightenment_ and, around his butterscotch sundae, tapped his fingers on two names. So Hegel and Schiller had been bringing their post and sipping at their cereal bowls for five years.

“ _Ow_ ,” Courfeyrac groaned, gently detaching Hegel’s claw from his shoulder, “Where were you at breakfast then?”

Hegel gave a low, indignant hoot, muffled around the letter clamped in his beak. He ruffled his speckled, grey plumage, as if asking Courfeyrac to take it. 

“Dibs on that armchair!” Bahorel suddenly exclaimed, pointing, and the nearby first years jumped violently in their seats.

Courfeyrac followed Bahorel’s bolting progress towards the free chair absent-mindedly, taking the letter from Hegel and opening it, before flopping onto the chair’s arm.

Whilst Musichetta perched on the back of the chair (Bahorel began to incoherently grumble about the actual point of ‘dibs’) and Bossuet settled on the worn carpet by the fire, Courfeyrac perused the letter scrawled in his youngest sister’s scrawling handwriting, which was concluded with a rudimentary crayon drawing of himself turning her into a frog, and an after note asking how Prince Combeferre was. (She’d taken a shine to him ever since he’d first visited over the summer holidays). That warm feeling when he thought of his sisters swelled in his chest, marred by the smallest pang of homesickness that not even Hogwarts could dismiss. 

The four of them sat by the undying flames as people returned from dinner, and others headed up to their dormitories; the common room filled with the low buzz of chatter that always came with the end of a long day of lessons. The first years were still playing gobstones, and every now and then one of them would emit a cry of disgust as they were squirted with gobstone liquid. Hegel had perched himself on the armchair next to Musichetta, and was cleaning his feathers. 

By ten o’clock, most of the Gryffindors had begun to head towards their own rooms, and those remaining were yawning loudly; some of them staring furiously at textbooks that were apparently not being obliging in aiding them with their homework. Courfeyrac happily pushed his Potions essay from his mind, and got to his feet.

“Boathouse time!” Bahorel boomed loudly, as Musichetta finished off the small ponytail she had been tying his hair into, staggering to his feet and pulling up Bossuet by his proffered hand.

“Where are you all off to at this time of night?” The Fat Lady said in an indignant tone as the four of them stepped through the portrait hole and headed towards forward along the corridor, 

“The library.” Bossuet said, sending her a winning grin over his shoulder.

Considering the distance of the rather ridiculous location that they had picked last year as a relatively safe meeting place free from teachers’ patrols, the walk there was miraculously free of unwelcome meetings with teachers, Mrs Norris, or Peeves. Years at Hogwarts had taught them secret passages concealed under tapestries, or doors that led incredibly quickly to other parts of the castle that rational logic could not explain. They eventually made it outside, where the air was thankfully cold and fresh and free of rain, making their breath steam. 

They were in the Entrance Courtyard, hidden in the shadows of the cloisters, and, quietly, they headed towards the steps that spanned, twisting, down the steep hill down towards the lake, where the small boathouse was perched, veiled in the darkness. Bossuet tripped over a tangle of weeds, and Bahorel caught him by the collar of his robes before he could fall over. He sniggered to himself most of the way down the steps.

The night air was brisk and quiet. The torches staggered along the stairs were unlit that night, and Courfeyrac’s wand tip was the only thing that led them. The lake stretched below them, unseen, waters rippling gently against the craggy rock face that further round the castle would soften into smooth banks. Behind them, the castle seemed to grow; its turrets rising into better view. Only a few lights still burned in various windows; the rest of its occupants ready for sleep.

Grantaire, Joly, Feuilly and Marius were already at the boathouse; seated where the steps finished at the small jetty, to the left of the small building that stood with ivy creeping up its walls. One of them had bewitched small glowing lights to float lazily about the night air, casting soft rays upon their shoulders as they sat, legs dangling over the jetty, a metre or so above the dark water. 

“Hufflepuff wins.” Feuilly grinned when he turned round to see them, “We’ve been here _hours_.” 

“We were just debating about the odds of at least one of us getting caught.” Grantaire smirked, flicking his wrist so that the pebble he was holding flew out across the lake, skipping over the water before vanishing with a woeful ‘plop’. “I’m holding out for us all to beat the rap.” 

“You lot did have the longest route,” Joly pointed out, looking up from bewitching pebbles, so that they grew small, butterfly wings and began to flutter about his shoulders, “Did anyone bring a radio?”

At that moment, the unmistakable sound of a radio tuning met their ears, and they all jumped, looking towards the other path that led down to the boathouse.

“Your faces.” Eponine’s voice said, and a moment later her features were washed in the glow of the lights around them, smirk intact. She settled down on Marius’s left side, and threw the radio at Joly, who caught it with a whoop of pleasure. 

“Where’s Enjolras?” Courfeyrac asked, waving his wand, so that a blanket appeared and draped itself over the damp jetty. His conjuration skills needed honing; the blanket was rather frayed at the edges. 

“Prefect duties with Combeferre.” Eponine sighed, tossing her hair over her shoulder and leaning back on her hands. “Don’t put the Witching Hour on, Joly. I can’t stand Celestina Warbeck.” 

Joly let out a muted noise of horror, and Bossuet patted his shoulder in pity.

Jehan appeared in the next few minutes, emerging out the gloom, wide-eyed and pensive, as if he were some being brought about by the dusk. The effect was only enhanced by the enormous, fluffy grey and white cat he was clutching, which was staring at them all with disdain.

“Aziola wanted to come.” Jehan announced happily, which, looking at the cat’s put out face, Courfeyrac very much doubted. Jehan gently placed the cat on the rug Courfeyrac had conjured, and settled down, humming quietly. Eponine and Joly appeared to have compromised on a radio station, and soft, drawn out songs were issuing from the radio.

Enjolras and Combeferre arrived about five minutes later, just as Courfeyrac had begun to share out the Liquorice Wands and Chocoballs he’d stocked up on from the train’s trolley. 

“The illustrious prefects arrive from their tragic journey off the rails!” Courfeyrac exclaimed around the Liquorice Wand hanging from his mouth, leaping to his feet and dashing over to them, winding his arms around Enjolras. Enjolras laughed, his hand coming up to touch Courfeyrac’s back affectionately,

“I’m sure there’s something awfully like a prefect badge glittering on your chest, you know.” He said, and Courfeyrac made a ‘pfft’ noise, waving that point away. He sent a grin towards Combeferre as he settled back down on the blanket, and after a moment, Combeferre walked over to him, seating himself a metre from him, one leg sliding out to hang over the jetty’s edge. 

“Come across any wandering first years sneaking out of bed?” He grinned, and Combeferre flashed him a small smile, accepting the Chocoball Courfeyrac was offering him.

“No, luckily,” He replied, “Or that would have weighed on my conscience slightly right about now.”

Courfeyrac laughed at that, and tried to reason away the warm feeling that shot across his chest as Combeferre laughed too.

“It’s lovely here, isn’t it?” Combeferre said after a moment, sitting back on his hands and looking about him. Jehan was chatting animatedly with Grantaire and Bahorel, Aziola bundled in his hands; and Eponine, Joly, Bossuet, Marius and Musichetta were lying on their backs, limbs intertwined on the small jetty as they listened to the gentle crooning of the radio station. Enjolras and Feuilly were talking, heads close together; and moths fluttered about the softly glowing lights that illuminated them all. Inside the boathouse, the gentle rhythm of boats hitting against their moorings sounded, water lapping at their wooden sides.

“Mmm.” Courfeyrac agreed, admittedly more focused on the speaker than his object.

“There’s a wonderfully large population of Flying Seahorses here,” Combeferre continued, that look coming over his face that Courfeyrac had often seen when he was pouring over the contents of the library, or gently examining the various plants they studied in the hot greenhouses. “I enjoy bringing them copepods from the Potions store cupboard.”

“That’s…thoughtful.” Courfeyrac said after a moment’s deliberation. 

“I like to be thoughtful.” Combeferre followed quickly, flicking a look at him, and Courfeyrac got the strong sense he was lightly mocking himself. He couldn’t help smiling.

“You’re thoughtful even to chimaeras.”

“Which Hagrid says are very misunderstood creatures.” Feuilly put in, apparently having overheard that part of the conversation, and cutting across whatever it was that was passing between Courfeyrac and Combeferre. Combeferre’s gaze held his, and Courfeyrac didn’t dare look away, distantly aware of how his heart was thumping in his chest.

Both jumped a moment later when there was a large splash, and one of Combeferre’s Flying Seahorses appeared for a brief moment, before disappearing back beneath the surface of the lake, flecks of water hitting Courfeyrac’s skin. 

Jehan’s cat let out a long, drawn mewl, its large eyes fixed on the spot where the seahorse had vanished, its tail flicking. 

“‘Did you not hear the Aziola cry?’” Grantaire grinned, leaning forwards on his elbows from his spot on the floor to scratch the cat behind its ears, his free hand clutching the Liquorice Wand Courfeyrac had given him.

“‘Methinks she must be nigh.’” Jehan responded with a small smile, getting to his feet and heading towards the rocks that clustered around the jetty.

“Your cat is more owl, Prouvaire.” Grantaire mused, and Aziola purred loudly as he continued to stroke him.

“What are you talking about?” Enjolras asked, looking over at Grantaire, and the frown he often wore when he looked at him was there, though Courfeyrac had often wondered if it was anything to do with annoyance, but more force of habit. 

“We’re talking of downy owls, Enjolras.” Jehan beamed, taking off his shoes and stepping on the nearest rock, crouching down to gently touch one of the limpets clamped there. 

“That clears that up.” Bahorel grinned, leaning forwards and changing the radio station. He was met with howls of protest from Eponine and Joly. 

“Enjolras doesn’t strike me as a reader of Shelley.” Grantaire said, tilting his head as he looked over at him, eyes slightly hooded. “He has no time for nightingales who sit in darkness and sing to cheer their own solitude.” 

“And yet somehow, I know what you’re referencing.” Enjolras said, voice sharp. 

Grantaire looked amused, and brought his Liquorice Wand back up to his mouth, and moved it in a way that left Courfeyrac with no doubt as to what he was emulating. Enjolras went scarlet.

There was a sudden explosion of warbling saxophones from the small radio, which had apparently just been turned up as loud as it would go. It appeared Celestina Warbeck was still being played on the WWN. Courfeyrac flicked a look at Musichetta, who was seated nearest the radio. She met his eye and winked. 

If Enjolras had wanted to attempt a response to Grantaire, which no doubt would have abruptly ruined their group amicable atmosphere, he had little chance to over the noise of the radio. After a few moments, Bossuet leant over and turned it down. 

“Laigle,” Musichetta said, sounding disappointed. 

They stayed there a long time, as the stars moved overhead; high above the castle that lay a towering dark outline far above them. Owls hooted gently from trees that tangled their way up the rough landscape, and creatures made gentle ripples in the water, splashing now and then. 

Courfeyrac lay back on the faded rug, letting the constellations claim his eyes; Combeferre in the corner of his gaze. The stars never looked like this at home; here, free from pollution they rippled across the sky in their billions; clouded together, and Courfeyrac wondered how anyone could describe the night sky as black. Purples and blues spread high above him now, and, beside him, Combeferre lay down, sighing softly as he put his hands on his chest, and looked up at the heavens. 

Courfeyrac resisted the temptation to turn to look at him, to have their faces so close to touching, and he pulled his robes over his hands so that Combefere would not notice they were sweating, and instead tried to force his mind to the stars above him. Combeferre would know so many of their names, he thought, could tell him so many of their stories; yet another part of nature he so gently loved. 

Combeferre, who was lying beside him, so close that their hips were touching, who had no idea of the wave of feelings resting over Courfeyrac’s mind, who no doubt still saw him as the friend he had made when they were eleven years old. 

The stars glittered down at him, and he was sure they were mocking.

He was somewhere between relief and anguish when Bossuet suddenly gave a yelp and switched the radio off.

“What?” Eponine asked, sounding affronted.

“There’s a light up there,” Bossuet whispered, and Courfeyrac made to look round to see where he was indicating. Beside him, Combeferre shifted too, and they ended clashing halfway, Courfeyrac bumping his shoulder on Combeferre’s.

“Oh.” Combeferre said, and Courfeyrac wasn’t sure what that expression in his eyes was. And a moment later it vanished into a small smile, that might have been embarrassed. 

It took him a while to care to look at what Bossuet had pointed at, but when he did, he scrambled to his feet with the rest of them.

Halfway down the dark, twisting steps that led up to the castle, a light was bobbing; unmistakably a lantern in the hands of someone coming to investigate the lights they had left burning, and the ongoing warbling of Celestina Warbeck. 

And, knowing their luck, it was probably Filch.

“ _Nox_ ,” Musichetta whispered, and the soft glowing lights immediately went out. Courfeyrac swooped down and hastily scooped up his conjured blanket (Aziola gave a yowl of annoyance); beside him, Jehan was sliding his damp feet back into his shoes. 

“This way,” Eponine whispered, taking Marius by the shoulder of his robes, and she calmly headed towards the inner workings of the boathouse.

The boathouse smelt strongly of damp and bird droppings, and its floor was slippery. They hurried around the platforms that the boats were moored to, heading over to the exit the other side of the building, that would lead up the winding hill towards the castle, and away from the investigating light.

On his right, Bossuet took five confident step forwards, and, almost in slow motion, Courfeyrac watched him slip. He leant over to grab at Courfeyrac, who felt his foot slide out, and, with resigned indignation, found himself and Bossuet slipping over the platform and into the water. 

He wasn’t particularly sure which was louder; the resulting splash, or Grantaire, laughing so hard he had to lean forwards, his hands on his knees. 

“I despair.” Musichetta sighed, leaning forwards to offer Bossuet her hand. 

“Did you just slap your leg?” Bahorel asked Grantaire. 

“Shut _up_.” Eponine hissed, and Courfeyrac, still waist deep in lake water, removed a clump of weeds from his hair. 

Combeferre appeared, a grin pulling at his mouth as his hand extended towards Courfeyrac,

“You’re looking far too amused, you know,” He informed him, but he took his hand anyway, ignoring the shot of warmth the contact with his skin caused, and instead focused on getting back on the platform without slipping back in again.

“I should apologise,” Combeferre said, grinning fully now,

“Only if you mean it.” Courfeyrac told him. 

“ _Ah._ ” 

“I’m so sorry, Courf,” Bossuet groaned, and Courfeyrac looked away from Combeferre to see him drying his face on his sleeve,

“Nonsense, I love impromptu swimming as much as the next person.” Courfeyrac said in his best cheery voice, walking forward to clap Bossuet on the arm, “Let’s make it skinny dipping next time.”

“Come _on_ , losers,” Eponine huffed, grabbing Marius and marching round the corner, out of sight. The rest of them hurried after her. Grantaire was still sniggering. 

The walk up the steep hill was not improved by Courfeyrac feeling drenched from head to toe, and it was only halfway up it that he remembered the spell Joly had used to dry them all off after Care of Magical Creatures earlier in the week. He didn’t quite have the same knack for it as Joly; the ends of his hair still dripped half-heartedly down the back of his neck.

He was wheezing by the time they were at the entrance to the paved courtyard, Gryffindor tower rising high above them at the other end of the quiet cloisters. 

“That was close,” Feuilly said cheerfully, once he had got his breath back.

“I think a new location for afterhours meet-ups is required.” Jehan mused. Aziola was clutched tightly in his hands, and was looking decidedly disgruntled. 

“Shame,” Grantaire put in. 

“As much as I’d love to continue this pattern of soggy near getaways,” Joly said, “I’m exhausted. And Grantaire has to go to Quidditch practice in a few hours.”

“Ah yes,” Grantaire said, smirking at something he apparently found amusing, “I can’t miss out on another night of fulfilling sleep.” 

“Get back to bed, you rebels!” A winged boar statue suddenly shouted, and they all jumped. 

It came as an odd sort of relief, Courfeyrac reflected a few minutes later, to be climbing the stairs towards the Gryffindor common room. He suddenly felt tired, as he always did when his large group of friends dispersed, as if he had been saving all his energies for them and was now left with nothing. 

And Combeferre was weighing on his mind in a way he both wished he wouldn’t, but also revelled in. Feeling more than usually attached to someone should be the kind of thing you told your best friend, but what could be done when that person _was_ your best friend? He pictured telling Enjolras, and shuddered at the almost certain resulting awkwardness.

Bahorel had to shout the password to wake the Fat Lady, and it was with a string of resentments that she swung her portrait open to let them in. 

Gryffindor common room was deserted; the embers of the once crackling fire instead glowing from behind the grate. Sweet-wrappers and scattered parchment littered the rickety surfaces, and the portraits on the tapestry-draped walls were snoring loudly.

They trudged up the winding staircase to the landing, and whispered goodnight to Musichetta, before heading up the boys’ staircase, and pushing open the door to the sixth years’ dormitory. 

Bahorel leapt onto his bed, letting out a large sigh, and Bossuet laid his still-wet shoes on the stove in the centre of the room. He caught Courfeyrac’s eye, and mouthed ‘sorry’ once more. 

Once in bed, having pulled the red hangings around him, Courfeyrac lay back, pulling the covers high up to his chin. To his left, through the gap in his hangings, the lake glinted in the moonlight through the cross-hatched window. The posters he’d pinned to the roof of his bed of the Holyhead Harpies and numerous photos of his friends were moving above him.

He watched Marius waving cheerfully, Bossuet laughing with his arm around him, and next to them, a photo of Enjolras was sleeping, his hand tangled in his hair.

And he watched Combeferre, looking over at the camera from the pages of a book, a distracted smile on his face. He felt that pang in his chest again, and a rush of self-loathing rushed over him. He had been given something so indescribably wonderful with his friends, and the thought of what this sudden change of sentiment could bring had the power to shatter it all. He lay there, his arms folded under his head, staring at those photos of his friends, suddenly feeling sick at the prospect. Images flashed through his head that he would later consider irrational and absurd and the prospect of exhaustion and fear; images of Combeferre looking at him in disgust; of Enjolras at Combeferre’s side, ignoring him. 

He played those images over in his head like a record player stuck on repeat, unable to calm the erratic beat of his heart; his untrustworthy and traitorous heart, and tried to tug possible solutions for his situation from his overworked brain. But none came forwards, and he instead lay there in quiet panic as Bahorel’s snores filled the room. 

And it was a long while before he finally fell asleep.

\- 

Perhaps if Grantaire had known that cheerful and warm Courfeyrac was awake long into the night, then perhaps he might have been comforted in some twisted way.

But instead, he watched another night fade, the stars along with it, from the bed in the dormitory he’d slept in for six years, the exhaustion making his head ache and not allowing sleep.

And once again, he rose when he heard Joly’s loud yawning, heaving out his Quidditch robes from the battered trunk at the end of his bed. He waited for the others to get up and dress, in no mood to be left alone with his thoughts longer than he needed to be, and it was only when they were at the Entrance Hall, that he left them to their breakfast in the Great Hall, and headed outside into the grounds. 

The prospect of Quidditch practice did somewhat alleviate the low mood he found so constantly inhabited him. 

He’d been in the Quidditch team since the third year, having headed to the try-outs with Feuilly for pure amusement, and ended up gleefully indignant that he was by far the best seeker among the applicants. He’d maintained that tired manner when it came to Quidditch, but there was something about kicking off from the ground and feeling the air stir his hair that gave some metaphorical (and decidedly literal) distance from the thoughts that plagued his mind when he forced his tired feet forwards whilst on the ground.

The morning was cool; dew soaking his feet as he headed towards the pitch; weak sun lighting on strands of cobwebs floating on the air. Far away, beyond the grounds, the purple scrub of heather tangled along the high hills, misty in the morning light.

It was only their second practice of term, which, in Grantaire’s opinion, with a match in two weeks, was playing it hazardously. But that seemed to be his style. He still looked around at the pitch with its towering, elegant stands, pale in the morning sun, and felt a fondness that did not often find itself felt. 

The practice itself was muddy; the ground hadn’t dried from the rain last week, and twice the Snitch dropped so low that Grantaire’s feet skimmed the drenched grass in his efforts to catch it. 

By the time he headed back up towards the castle, talking and laughing loudly with the rest of the team, mud was splattered up his robes, and, from earlier contact with his hand, his hair was stiff with it.

The team dissembled in the Entrance Hall, and, not hungry for breakfast, Grantaire broke away from them and headed up the marble staircase towards the first floor. 

He had no destination in mind, and ended up sinking onto one of the low windowsills on one of the first floor corridors. The corridor was like most of the ones in the castle; a long structure with arching ceilings, old rugs scattering the floor and one or two suits of armour dotted at random intervals along the walls, squeaking slightly as they shifted their weight. Sunlight was drifting in through the tall windows, dust motes floating in the air, and Grantaire leant against the edge of the window, leaning his broomstick on the floor. 

He looked out at the sloping roof that ran out beneath him, a couple of trees beyond it waving their branches in a cold breeze; leaves hitting against the old, stained roof tiles. The sky above that was not hidden by the towers and levels rising above him was gleaming determinedly blue.

He watched an owl make its way over the stretch of sky, and tried to cast his waiting pile of homework from his mind, all too aware that he could rarely ever bring himself to do it on time. Perhaps some of his teachers understood why, but that didn’t stop the detentions. 

He sighed heavily, pressing fingers to his eyelids. A headache had laced itself behind them since last week, plaguing his mind and beating dully as he tried to sleep.

“Grantaire?”

The voice cut, uncertain, across his melancholy thoughts; a voice he knew instantly. He took his hand away from his eyes and looked up at Enjolras, who was standing a few metres away, regarding him cautiously. 

“Is this prefect duty?” Grantaire grinned, after a quick moment when his heart slipped a beat slightly, “Am I allowed to sit here, oh noble one?”

“I was going to the library.” Enjolras snapped, then, much to Grantaire’s amusement, seemed to take a second’s breath. Grantaire's smile flickered when he moved closer towards him, one hand playing awkwardly with the strap of his bag, 

“How was Quidditch practice?” He asked, and Grantaire was half-deliberating about turning round, to see if there was someone further down the corridor that Enjolras might be addressing. But it fully appeared as if Enjolras was here, talking directly to him, and not on a subject that might provoke their usual spats. 

“Muddy,” He ended up saying unnecessarily, and, to his complete shock, Enjolras settled himself at the other end of the window sill. He sat, two metres away, and Grantaire stared at him, working to keep his features under control. Something must have shown in his face, because the uncertainty lacing Enjolras’s features seemed to increase.

“I was taking toast with me,” Enjolras said after a moment, and after seeing Grantaire stare uncomprehendingly at him, he reached into his bag and pulled out a stack of toast wrapped in a napkin, 

“That’s brave.” Grantaire said after a pause, smirking. Madame Pince, the librarian, still maintained a strong dislike of him after he’d deigned to bring a Chocolate Frog into the library back in his second year. 

“Are you hungry?” Enjolras asked softly. 

He wasn’t looking at Grantaire, his eyes instead fixed on the toast he was busy unwrapping, and Grantaire took in his features, looking at how the morning sun was falling across his face, lighting on his downturned lashes, deepening apparent shadows under his eyes. He wondered if, just perhaps, Enjolras hadn’t slept well either.

“No.” Grantaire said, before he’d thought about it, just as his stomach gave a slight rumble. Enjolras let out a breath of humour, and looked across at him. It was akin to being pinned down, Grantaire mused, as if he were some kind of insect on a board. Enjolras’s eyes were a steely grey, but he didn’t look irritated with Grantaire. Not yet, anyway.

He reached out the hand holding the slices of cold toast, and Grantaire thought it best not to try to argue, and conceded by taking a slice. Enjolras went back to toying with the napkin, and Grantaire took advantage of his distraction to look at him again, without the guarded expression he cast up whenever Enjolras looked his way. He was too tall to be sitting on the window ledge; his knees up by his elbows. He wasn’t wearing his Slytherin robes today, but Muggle clothing; a faded red t-shirt that looked a little big for him, and dark turned up jeans. 

“Do your parents know you wear those?” Grantaire asked, smiling around the bite of toast he’d just taken.

“No,” Enjolras replied, his tone slightly clipped, and Grantaire got the sense that, for once, it was not anger at him that had prompted it. Enjolras was silent a moment, before breaking off a bit of toast, and turning it in his slender hands, Grantaire watching him all the while, and saying, “They don’t really know a lot of things I do.” 

“Snap,” Grantaire said, and the grin slipped back on his face as Enjolras looked over at him, “But let’s not talk about parents. That’s a gloomy topic.” 

“You started it.” Enjolras responded, and for a moment Grantaire thought he was seriously pouting, but then he saw the smile on his lips. And Enjolras smiling encased him in a warmth the morning sunlight still shining determinedly though the window could nowhere near compete with. 

They sat in silence a while, Grantaire slowly chewing the toast, and Enjolras turning his in his hands.

“Why aren’t we friends?” Enjolras suddenly blurted, as if he had been wanting to say it ever since he had said Grantaire’s name, and colour ran to his cheeks; as if he’d immediately regretted letting the words finally escape.

And at that Grantaire felt a rush of something run over him at that; it suddenly felt too hot in that long, high corridor, the sunlight on his skin akin to a spotlight. And to his frustration, he felt a trace of disappointment rush through him, as if, somehow, he’d still retained some hope that Enjolras considered him a friend. He knew that had been stupid, and anger at himself lit along his veins. In a split second, it rebuilt that defensive sentiment; that defensiveness he had grown so accustomed to using. 

_Because we could never be friends_ , he wanted to say, to shout, to make Enjolras finally _see_ after feeling what he’d had to, what he’d both wanted and hated to feel for so long, _Because how could we be, when I feel I’m suffocating whenever I look at you, and you’d look at me with disgust if you knew._

But he didn’t say any of those things, just listened to Enjolras breathing quietly next to him, his long fingers still threading themselves in the serviette. 

“You don’t think we’re friends?” He instead asked lightly, lowering his gaze to pick at the loose threads of his jumper. They snagged and unravelled further. 

“Do _you_ think we’re friends?” 

Grantaire snorted, tugging at his sleeve more forcefully.

“Is this you practicing for debates? Because I’m not too interested in helping right now.”

“Grantaire-”

“You really know how make someone feel _special_ , you know,” Grantaire was mostly sure where this stem of particular bitterness was ebbing from, and it was dripping from his voice as if liquid, and seeing Enjolras flick a glance at him only irked him further, “Sorry I don’t make a better show of following you around, worshipping the ground you walk on.”

Enjolras flinched, and Grantaire tightened his grip on his jumper, his knuckles whitening as he willed his hands not to shake, and he was too close to that invisible line, too close to that terrible twisted truth that he _did_ follow Enjolras, regardless of his rebuffs and harsh rejections. 

“Is that what you think I believe friends are?” Enjolras asked, voice trembling slightly with what sounded like fury, 

“I’m ungracious, Enjolras.” Grantaire said, forcing something like a smirk on his face, his heart hammering in his chest, and a line was suddenly hammering through his mind like a mantra; _Stars hide your fires; let not light see my black and deep desires._ “By why don’t you head along to the library? Stop wasting your time on outreach work to waste of time students.”

Enjolras got to his feet. He was no longer blushing, his face was white with anger, 

“I don’t understand why you hate me so much,” He said, and Grantaire didn’t think he’d ever heard his voice shake so much. A wave of guilt churned itself over him, and as Enjolras turned away from him, marching down the corridor and out of sight, he leant back against the cool pane of the window, feeling his heart thrashing in his rib cage. 

And he reflected that Enjolras, clever and astute Enjolras, had rather missed the point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eeeek sorry theres been such a gap between updates!!! i was overcome with guilt and thought i should do some work for uni haaa  
> thank you for the lovely comments! (and thank you so much to people reading this ahhh) <3


	4. the air turns cold with november, and warm smiles are sad

Summer had long since faded as October drew to a close. 

The nights about the castle were growing shorter; darkness falling now long before they all sat down in the Great Hall to dinner in the early evening. A misty haze began to settle continually about the grounds in mornings, and the air had the thick tang of smoke to it; from the great bonfires Hagrid was making from dead branches and raked leaves. The trees were fully turning now; leaves shrinking and fading to orange, starting to coat the walks to the greenhouses in a crisp and crunchy layer. 

To Enjolras, who hadn’t really looked at the arrival of autumn, the weekend had passed in a blur of idleness and rain, sitting in Gryffindor Tower when it was too empty for anyone else to care about their presence; listening to the WWN whilst half-focusing on essays; and comparing Chocolate Frog cards. 

The week had begun unremarkably; much the same as the last, although he started it with the disconsolate feeling of being further at odds with Grantaire, who had seemed to be successfully ignoring him since they’d spoken on Saturday. History of Magic on Monday passed as one of the most awkward hour and a half's Enjolras had ever experienced. He was in no mood to apologise, particularly when he felt that it was Grantaire who had overstepped whatever mark it was they’d set between themselves. And it became quickly apparent that Grantaire was not going to great lengths to make amends between them. He lounged in the seat next to Enjolras, saying nothing and staring out the window at the grounds. It was only afterwards, looking at his own scarce notes, that Enjolras realised he’d probably focused on what Grantaire was doing a little too much that lesson. 

“Are you currently more irritated at Grantaire than could be considered normal?” Courfeyrac asked him on Tuesday evening, when they were patrolling the second floor corridor after hours. The light coming from the tip of his wand cast his features in a light that made him appear uncharacteristically stern.

“It’s hardly my fault.” Enjolras replied, caught off guard at the suddenness of the question. Courfeyrac looked at him, and he felt a nagging to amend his words. “This time.”

Courfeyrac sighed heavily, but didn’t pursue the topic. 

Friday, a week after their eventful evening at the boathouse, he climbed the steps from the dungeons to be met with the smell of cooking pumpkins. He’d forgotten, as he always forgot such dates, that it was Halloween; and would have continued that way if not for the fact that the hall was currently full of pumpkins, suspended next to the floating candles, ready to be lit for the feast that night. 

He made his way to the Ravenclaw table (alone; Eponine was trailing behind him with her arm looped round Montparnasse’s and the two of them were sniggering at something Enjolras had not bothered to discern), sliding onto the bench opposite Bahorel, who was currently drawing cat whiskers onto Musichetta’s face.

“Whoever gets told to remove them last wins.” He was grinning, and his eyes flicked over to Enjolras as he finished, “You want whiskers?”

“No thanks.”

But Bahorel would not give up so easily, and, halfway through his bowl of porridge, whilst attempting to finish his reading for Charms later that day, Enjolras conceded and allowed Bahorel to draw three lines on either side of his face.

“Well, _this_ is interesting.” Grantaire’s voice came lazily to Enjolras’s ears, and with surprise, he watched him seat himself directly next to him. The sudden proximity suddenly filled him with something that felt an awful lot like nerves. 

“It’s a competition.” Bossuet enthused, turning to Joly who had just sunk into the space next to him, holding up his quill hopefully, “To see who looks like a moron the longest.”

“Beautiful.” Joly said, gesturing for Bossuet to continue. 

Enjolras shook his head and returned to the Charms book. It was only after reading the same sentence six times that he chanced a look at Grantaire.

He was looking at him, his eyes hooded in that customary way of his; only no smile was playing on his lips this time, mocking or otherwise. He looked meditative, the shadows under his eyes speaking of a tiredness that Enjolras couldn’t remember if he’d noticed before.

His face seemed to rearrange when Enjolras turned to him, and he smirked.

“ _Meow._ ” He grinned.

Enjolras wondered why on earth he felt heat rush to his face. Grantaire somehow had the ability to do that to him; to bring out anger when he thought he was calm, or embarrassment or hurt when he was sure he didn’t care. He seemed to have some ability to make him question whether he knew himself at all; pulling him in twisted directions as if he were the tide; and Enjolras the flotsam on the shoreline. Looking at Grantaire’s eyes now, they did own the grey blue colour of the sea on a warm day. 

His face seemed to grow warmer. 

The bell high up in the Clocktower rang throughout the castle before Enjolras could begin to fathom the workings of Grantaire’s mind, and Combeferre and Marius got to their feet to head towards Arithmancy, both sporting rather wonkily applied drawn whiskers. Then Enjolras’s attention was diverted towards the library, unfinished essays seemingly weighing down his bag as he left the hall with Courfeyrac, Bossuet and Feuilly, who, unlike Combeferre, had outstanding homework. And, unlike Bahorel and Grantaire, had an inclination to complete it. 

They left Grantaire and the sea in his eyes Enjolras did not understand. 

The library was mostly empty; spare a few sixth and seventh years using their free period to catch up on work; the rows and rows of books silent spare the odd cough and the scratching of a quill on parchment, or the rustle of a page being turned over.

Enjolras settled at the end of a row of desks by the window as Feuilly and Courfeyrac went to find the books they needed, unpacking the contents of his bag onto the dark, shiny surface of the table before him, knocking his elbow distractedly on the paned window beside him in the process.

The days were cold now; frost covering the grounds in the mornings and the air biting his skin whenever he left the castle. But today, weak sunlight had managed to throw itself over the grounds, making the lone beech tree just visible by the lake gleam orange and gold. It boded well for the Hogsmeade trip at the weekend, Enjolras mused.

“Some bastard’s taken out the last copy of _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them,_ ” Feuilly whispered as he slid into the seat two seats down from Enjolras, the better to spread his notes out, “Don’t suppose you know anything about chizpurfles, do you?” 

Enjolras was spared admitting ignorance by Courfeyrac, who launched into a colourful description of chizpurfles and their habit of feeding of electrical Muggle goods. Feuilly, who had grown up in the Muggle world, seemed to have no issue with the concept of electrovores. Bossuet on the other hand, looked half-amused, half-completely lost. Enjolras, who had through a mixture of curiosity and the rebellious urge to infuriate his parents, had from an early age taught himself as much as he could about the Muggle world he’d never really been a part of. 

Bossuet heaved his belongings back into his bag when the bell rang for break, needing the time to begin the climb to North Tower for his Divination lesson. He left with a cheerful chorus of promising to tell them all what the fates had in store for them that week, and after ten minutes of attempted concentration, they too gathered up their things and headed to the courtyard where most of the school spent break times. 

They were detained somewhat by Peeves, who swooped out from behind the statue of Wilfred the Wistful on the second floor, and pelted them with ink pellets. One caught Enjolras squarely on his ear, spattering ink over his hair, and he retaliated by sending every jinx he could think of in Peeve’s direction. 

By the time Peeves had soared away, cursing, a portrait had fallen, squawking, off its wall; a delicate china vase had been smashed, and Courfeyrac was insisting that Enjolras was the most terrifying thing he’d ever seen.

Their group of friends were huddled in the sunshine that was just managing to span into half the courtyard; a few of them sitting on the low wall that bordered off a gurgling fountain. Combeferre, whose face was clean from drawings, was exposed to a cry of indignation from Feuilly.

“Professor Vector informed Marius and I that we are not cats,” He said, seeming to be fighting a smile, “And we should therefore remove juvenile scribblings from our faces.”

“I’m _hurt_ at the insult to my drawing skills.” Bahorel said, voice deadpan.

“You appear to be displaying some balance of extremes, Enjolras.” Grantaire’s voice said quietly, and Enjolras looked past Bahorel to see him sitting against one of the columns that rose to shelter the fountain, the smile on his face slight as he looked at him through his usual, hooded eyes. “Is this some new-fangled art movement I need to get behind?”

Enjolras, who had not quite got around to siphoning off the ink on his face, was exceedingly tempted to note that Grantaire’s behaviour towards him was the pinnacle of a balance of extremes, but he felt Combeferre’s eyes on him, and after a moment of feeling oddly tentative, he sent Grantaire a strained smile whilst Courfeyrac launched into an account of their run-in with Peeves. 

Grantaire’s eyes were locked on Enjolras’s, an unreadable expression lighting his face as Enjolras felt totally, unexplainably unable to look away. 

He jumped when Combeferre took mercy on him, and touched his hair with his wand, leaving no trace of the ink that had been twisted there. Unfortunately, owed to his peripheral vision, he was fairly sure he still had whiskers.

Jehan hurried off to Divination when the bell echoed about the courtyard, and, as they all moved into the castle in the search of somewhere warm to pass their free period, Enjolras felt himself warring with his mind over the prospect of talking to Grantaire.

He was usually a decided person; he could set upon a course of action and follow it. But perhaps it was the fact that he’d been held awake long into the past few nights that was pulling him into indecision; as he’d lain awake contemplating whether Grantaire hated him as much as he’d declared he had on Saturday. 

Grantaire’s words that day had been bitter and spiteful, and they’d stung Enjolras far harder than he’d initially realised. He supposed he could blame a lot of their hostile relationship on himself; he _knew_ he could, but looking at Grantaire now, as he laughed at a joke of Joly’s as they headed up the marble staircase, it was hard to see that hostility at all. Except for the knowledge of it stinging in his chest, and the memory of Grantaire’s twisting, mocking smile. 

There was certainly some balance of extremes playing out between them, and he hated it. Hated the way Grantaire would look at him with that veiled expression he couldn’t decipher; hated he way his eyes leapt to his whenever he spoke, ready to mock and unravel his ideas. That part he didn’t mind in the sense that Grantaire was clever, so clever sometimes, and his comments buillt strong walls around Enjolras’s ideas as he countered them. But at the same time, he was sure Grantaire was not doing it to aid him; but simply to mock and ridicule and it sent heated, humiliated anger pulsing along his skin. 

And then there was the fact that he was so decidedly not himself around Grantaire. His temper could hardly hold around him, barbed retorts sprang from his lips with spiteful ease, and he didn’t understand _why_ Grantaire didn’t simply leave him alone. With a sharp tug of guilt, he considered that maybe Grantaire thought Enjolras hated him too.

Lunchtime passed in a bit of blur to him, half listening to the quips his friends were throwing at one another over the clatter of knives and forks; half lost in thoughts he was only partially conscious of spending too long dwelling on. 

The rest of the day seemed to pass in the same fashion; as most of them headed off to Herbology across the cold grounds. Enjolras returned to the library; and the dusty tang of old books distracted him from the odd guilt roiling around in his stomach at the thought of Grantaire.

His mind felt somewhat clearer (and his Potions essay, somewhat more completed) when he joined the others in the Charms corridor on the third floor for their final lesson before the weekend. 

Courfeyrac seemed to be bouncing at that prospect, beaming at Enjolras as he approached, and he couldn’t help return it.

“Wow, Enjolras,” Feuilly snorted, when he spotted him, “You win.” 

It took Enjolras a moment to realise he was the only one with Bahorel’s doodling still on his face. 

Courfeyrac’s good mood seemed to escalate when they headed finally towards the Great Hall that evening for the Halloween feast. The pumpkins above them were lit now, Enjolras saw; illuminated, carved faces leering down at him amongst the usual candles that scattered the hall. 

The food was already loaded onto the four house tables, and Bahorel leapt towards the nearest free length of benches with a groan of longing, instantly beginning to load roast potatoes, chicken legs and vegetables (and, unconventionally, trifle) onto his plate.

Before Enjolras could think it through, he’d sat himself down next to Grantaire. 

“You lost the whiskers, I see.” He chimed the moment Enjolras had settled. He didn’t seem at all perturbed at the proximity; not in that way Enjolras had been that morning. And he abruptly wondered if he overthought things; but then he remembered Grantaire’s hooded eyes on Saturday and the bitterness of his words, and he dismissed the thought. 

“Funnily enough, yes,” He replied in a measured tone, reaching for the nearest dish of sprouts and pulling it towards him, “How was Herbology earlier?”

He felt Grantaire’s eyes on him a moment, as if curious as to the random question, and he realised he could probably count the amount of times they’d engaged in small talk on one hand. 

“Earthy.” He replied after a moment, and he reached for the sprouts Enjolras had just finished with. Their fingers brushed and Enjolras recoiled as if Grantaire’s touch harboured electricity. Something flickered across Grantaire’s face, but he continued as if nothing at happened. “And I sustained a wonderful bite from a Fanged Geranium.” 

“And after I fed it toast last week,” Feuilly said in a mock offended tone, having overheard, and Enjolras felt some odd rush of relief as Grantaire laughed, a tension easing from his own shoulders that he hadn’t realised had been there; as if maintaining civil conversation with Grantaire had made him uneasy and nervous. 

It took him a while to notice Marius, standing behind Feuilly’s shoulder; apparently not quite ready to sit down as he looked over Enjolras’s head at someone. He was willing to bet exactly who.

“Speak, thou apparition!” Grantaire exclaimed when he noticed him, through a mouthful of potatoes. 

Marius looked over at him, seemingly surprised at being addressed.

“Cosette and I made plans to go to Hogsmeade together,” He said cautiously after a moment, regarding Grantaire warily, as if he was expecting him to burst out into rambling speech again. If he had been, (which would have proved hard with the amount of food he’d just loaded into his mouth) he was cut off by Courfeyrac’s delighted squawk. 

“Take her to Madame Puddifoot’s!” He instructed him, abandoning the toffee apple he’d eaten the sugary outer of, and appeared to have no further wish to finish, 

“No way,” Musichetta cut in, looking revolted, “You can’t go wrong with the Three Broomsticks.” 

“The Hog’s Head serves you Firewhiskey.” Grantaire countered, looking greatly amused. 

“Liquid courage, Marius!” Bahorel said cheerfully, reaching up to clap him on the back.

Marius did not look greatly comforted. He had instead turned steadily paler the more they spoke. 

The feast ended with the usual entrance of the ghosts through the walls; swooping overhead; the Bloody Baron clanking his chains ominously. Nearly Headless Nick drifted over at one point to re-enact his rather poorly done execution, much to Jehan’s morbid delight. 

Enjolras felt that odd relief once more when the feast ended, and Bahorel finally let himself be dragged away from his third helping of profiteroles. He didn’t quite know what line of thought had prompted him to sit next to Grantaire, and he couldn’t quite comprehend how sitting nearer to him than normal had provoked that uneasy feeling. Perhaps it had been the occasional touch of their elbows as they’d eaten; but he’d sat next to him for uncountable History of Magic lessons; just the two of them on one desk. 

But, he reflected, as they moved into the Entrance Hall and began their goodnights, perhaps he never felt at ease during that class either.

\- 

The first day of the weekend dawned with the same brisk coldness as the day before.

Combeferre’s bed was always flooded in sunlight on these clear mornings; rays streaming in through the high windows that lined the circular dormitory. 

He lay in bed now, watching the light illuminate the pictures he’d put up on his bedposts; the drawings of moths; the photographs of waving trees he’d taken on walks; the pages Courfeyrac and Grantaire had doodled in lessons over the years. 

He brought a hand to his eyes, blinking away the last of sleep and shuffled up in the bed; yawning.

It was early still; judging from the snores issuing from various beds, but that didn’t seem to have perturbed Jehan, who was lying on his stomach, long legs crossed and his chin on his hand as he perused a battered library book.

“I’ve been up for hours,” He said by way of greeting, looking up to see the source of movement, “It’s nice to read at three o’clock in the morning.”

“I suppose it is.” Combeferre said blandly, not yet quite able to say anything else. 

“Did you want to get breakfast?” Jehan continued, finishing annotating a margin. Between them, they’d managed to jot notes (and point out faults) in half the books in the library. Combeferre dreaded the day Madame Pince discovered the perpetrators. “The others might be down early for Hogsmeade.” 

Combeferre made a noise of agreement, fighting a yawn as he clambered out of his twisted bed sheets and set about trying to locate some clothes. Behind him, Jehan sighed fondly at a favourite paragraph. 

Jehan’s assumption that a few of their friends might be up early proved correct. When they entered the hall Bahorel, Joly, Courfeyrac and Feuilly were already seated at the benches, huddled over coffee and slices of toast. 

“Hogsmeade weekend!” Bahorel chanted loudly when they approached, “Time to stock up on Dungbombs!”

“Don’t let Filch hear you say that.” Combeferre told him, reaching for the pot of coffee in the most dignified way he could muster,

“Or the prefects,” Joly added brightly, “We’re surrounded by them, Bahorel.” 

“A truly terrifying situation.” Courfeyrac grinned, and he caught Combeferre’s eye across the table. Combeferre felt the skin about his own eyes crease as he returned it. 

The rest of them arrived in pairs or alone, awake early only for the promise of Hogsmeade; yawning heavily. 

Combeferre had to admit he had a weakness for the place; for Tomes and Scrolls and its rows and rows of books that spelt like old spices when he opened them; for Dogweed and Deathcap and its array of exotic plants and the sharp tang of dirt it came with. And of course, Honeydukes, which was an unfortunate weakness of his. 

Marius, who had been sitting opposite Combeferre, and had been studying his watch instead of eating the boiled egg before him, leapt to his feet at quarter to nine, and announced he had to go and meet Cosette. Combeferre had the feeling he didn’t hear the voiced good lucks or the wolf whistle from Bahorel that followed him.

At nine o’clock, Grantaire, who had dark shadows draped below his eyes, slammed his empty coffee mug onto the table and declared that they all should leave. 

The queue of students to leave the castle for the nearby village was already extensive, and they joined the end of it with an air of impatience.

“Can’t you use your prefect powers to get us to the front?” Bossuet suggested to Combeferre, and he grinned.

“We can only use them on the harvest moon.” He responded.

He found himself beside Courfeyrac on the walk towards the village once they were out of the castle grounds; pulling his scarf further about him as the cold wind that around the school had been muted now sprung into biting effect. Courfeyrac’s curls were splayed about his head; cast up in the wind and giving the effect of a copper halo. Combeferre watched those waves of hair catch the weak November light for most of that winding, country walk; hills spanning high about them; heather staining them light purple. 

The village was so small they’d stumbled across it before they’d realised. Combeferre had often seen its high-street covered in thick snow, but today the ground was clear, paved stones leading to the various shops the students frequented when they were allowed here. 

“Can we get a butterbeer?” Joly asked as a group of students jostled past, apparently eager to get into Zonko’s; where bright lights were flashing in the windows and odd bangs and fizzes sounded inside. 

“You’ve just had breakfast,” Musichetta reminded him.

“Eponine and I are off to the Hog’s Head for a brief spell,” Grantaire said, voice coming lazy on the cold wind, 

“Why?” Bossuet asked,

“We couldn’t possibly tell you in front of such esteemed and responsible members of the student body,” Eponine replied instantly, sending a smirk towards Combeferre, Enjolras, Feuilly and Courfeyrac.

“But it does involve the acquisition of firewhiskey.” Grantaire said. 

“How surprising.” Enjolras said in a very unsurprised tone. 

Grantaire sent him a wink as he turned to head after Eponine, and Combeferre wondered if it was the cold that had made Enjolras’s cheeks quite so pink. 

Joly’s continued enthusiasms for a butterbeer ended up winning them over, and a few minutes later those of them who hadn’t gone to try and barter alcohol from a rather dubious pub found themselves in a crowded corner of the Three Broomsticks. 

Courfeyrac and Bahorel had left them at the largest table they could find, and had navigated to the bar, past numerous students and the odd adult, to order nine butterbeers. Combeferre slowly began to feel warmth ebb to the tips of his fingers (that even the pockets of his coat hadn’t saved from the cold) as he gazed distractedly about the pub; taking in the crackling fire and ochre coloured walls he hadn’t seen since last term.

“Set your laughing gear about _these_ ,” Courfeyrac announced, setting several tankards of butterbeers onto the table, “Bahorel won’t be a second; he dropped yours, Joly.”

His eyes flickered over to Combeferre’s as he talked, smiling eyes that reminded Combeferre of the days in summer they’d spent together. Perhaps that was why he felt warm when he looked at him. 

Grantaire and Eponine re-joined them as the warm butterbeer in Combeferre’s tankard was nearing its end. Their pockets looked suspiciously bulky, and glass clinked as Grantaire slid into a free seat. He sent a toothy grin over towards Enjolras as the bottles in his pockets hit against one another, as if trying to provoke him, and Combeferre was relieved when Enjolras said nothing, but seemed to concentrate all his efforts into ignoring him. 

They had finished their butterbeers and headed out of the crowed pub back into the high-street about ten minutes later. The air seemed to have grown colder; as if finally growing used to the idea of November. 

They winded up in Honeydukes rather promptly, which Combeferre had little qualms with, as they wondered about the packed, brightly coloured shop; past chattering packs of Ice Mice, huge Chocoballs and bowls filled with Pumpkin fizz.

He didn’t see Enjolras standing beside him until he spoke, at which point he jumped so much he nearly knocked the nearest jar of Exploding bonbons onto the floor. 

“Grantaire seems in an odd mood lately,” He said, as Combeferre tried to slow his heartbeat with dignity, 

“How do you mean?” He asked after a pause, in which he moved the Exploding bonbons out of harm's reach and looked over towards Grantaire, who was standing with Bahorel next to a huge crate of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans, selecting ones for their already crammed brown paper bags. 

Enjolras didn’t answer immediately, his gaze where Combeferre was looking,

“We had an argument,” He finally said slowly, and Combeferre restrained the impulse to interject with a remark at his lack of surprise, “And he wasn’t talking to me for days. And now he just seems,” He paused, frowning as he looked at Grantaire flicking a bean at Bahorel’s head, “ _Friendlier._ ” 

Combeferre couldn’t help snorting, and regretted it slightly as Enjolras looked at him; apparently somewhat bewildered.

“Do you want to be arguing with him?” He asked lightly, turning to examine the nearest jar of salt water taffy. Enjolras moved with him, teeth worrying his lower lip. 

“Of course I don’t,” He said tiredly, “I just don’t understand him.” 

Combeferre, whilst not particularly privy to what went on in Grantaire’s mind more often than not, had, however, dedicated a lot of his time into trying to understand Grantaire. 

He’d watched him; the way he made the others laugh, the quick-witted comments that would leap off his tongue. And he’d watch the way his eyes followed Enjolras, and the way those eyes would lose their seemingly constructed wall of humour. And he felt he knew the reason; in fact he was certain of it. But he wouldn’t voice it; in the same way he felt a few of the others wouldn’t. He’d often thought of somehow talking to Enjolras about it; but then he wondered at the reaction it would cause. There were some things that shouldn’t be voiced, and perhaps the undisguised, painful longing that tattooed itself across Grantaire’s features when he looked at Enjolras was one of them. 

He looked up at Enjolras now, who was still gazing across the shop at Grantaire; eyebrows so much darker than his fair hair lowered and his face contemplative. Combeferre tried to find those neutral words as he played with the jar handle of the taffy. 

“I think it’s a way of his to get past your disagreements.” He finally said in a forcibly light tone, “And restoring your relationship to what it was.”

“But we _always_ argue.” Enjolras now said, frustration lining his features, and Combeferre tried to hide a smile that seemed to be determined to show itself,

“Yes, well. I’d noticed.” Enjolras flicked a look at him, seemingly torn between amusement and vexation. “But it’s always been that way between you both, hasn’t it?”

“Are we talking about Enjolras’s terrible people skills?” Courfeyrac’s voice cut in, and he appeared next to them, arms filled with bags of sweets.

“You’ve bought the shop, then?” Enjolras said, sounding a little petulant after Courfeyrac’s comment. 

“This is essay sustenance.” Courfeyrac responded casually, lifting his arms so that the paper bags crunched, “But, back to what you were talking about before I distracted you all with my gleaming presence; why don’t you talk to Grantaire and tell him you don’t like arguing with him?” 

“Except for the debates you two get into,” Combeferre amended, “You can’t pretend you don’t enjoy those.”

“Before they go south, of course,” Courfeyrac concluded. 

Enjolras heaved a sigh; eyes still on Grantaire, but he seemed somewhat consoled. 

“Thank you,” He said quietly, so different from that clear and commanding tone that drew eyes and ears so easily, that tone he used when he was certain and convinced. The sound was unusual, and Combeferre wondered if there was anything else that made Enjolras feel as if the ground had been pulled from under his feet. Or if it was Grantaire's effect alone.

Enjolras moved off after a moment, towards the Unusual Tastes section; something he’d been fascinated by since they’d first come to Honeydukes, leaving Combeferre and Courfeyrac stood together; watching him. 

Combeferre looked over at Courfeyrac, and saw his brown eyes were already trained on his face. They shared that brief look that spoke of what they’d never properly voiced about Enjolras and Grantaire, and Combeferre wondered if they’d given the right advice. He couldn’t see quite how Enjolras telling Grantaire that he wished they didn’t argue could backfire; but their conversations constantly seemed to be a fuse, sparks trailing up it and only time or intervention stopping the ignition. And even then, perhaps Grantaire being told by Enjolras that he was a friend, and that he was valued, might cause him more of that pain he wore like a scar whenever he thought no one was looking. 

Courfeyrac had been searching for something in his bag of sweets, and he now pulled it out and held it out to Combeferre.

He saw it was a Sugar Quill; one of the more intricate constructions of spun-sugar that looked just like its real, feathered counterparts. 

He looked up as he accepted it, and saw the wide smile that broke Coufreyrac’s face. And, just for a moment, so fast it may have been a trick of the light in that gaudily decorated shop that smelt of toffee and sugar, he could have sworn there was a flash of sadness in that warm smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my gosh your comments are the absolute best, thank you so much to everyone who's been reading and i'm sorry you're having to wait so long for updates!! (i'm back at uni now so i'm being a right slowpoke at life)


	5. winter moves in, but spring can still bloom in places

Over the weekend the weak pale sunshine that had been filtering softly through the thin, mullioned windows of the castle and shining on the slate roof tiles abruptly came to an end.

Heavy grey clouds moved in over the craggy hills with their stunted, gnarled trees and yellow and purple broom; sweeping overhead and bringing with it a steady sheet of rain. From those same castle windows the grounds seemed to have been drowned; gloomy and indistinguishable in the steady and constant downpours. The students who came back from Herbology now had their robes dragged down by mud; soaked to the shins from the rain-drenched ground, and Care of Magical Creatures had been temporarily moved to an empty classroom back in the castle, away from the deluge. 

The castle itself seemed to take on the dim and murky nature that had overcome the grounds; its corridors washed grey in the lack of light only kept at bay by flickering torches. Rain pounded on the windows during lessons; rivulets streaming down the thin glass that could not prevent the drafts that swept those high ceilinged, stone rooms. 

And the Hufflepuff Common Room remained warm; that circular, ochre coloured room with its various pot plants and warm, crackling fire.

It made going up to the cold Great Hall for breakfast significantly harder, Grantaire mused, as he left it Wednesday morning with Joly, Feuilly and Marius. The long, burrow-like corridor shut behind them; cutting them off from its warm, snug interior and facing them with a long day of lessons in a cold, drafty castle. 

“I can see my breath.” Joly mumbled as they walked. At least, Grantaire assumed so; Joly was wearing a scarf about his neck, wound so much it covered his mouth. It provided a certain obstacle in his speech.

“Considering this is a school of magic,” Feuilly said conversationally as they emerged from the corridor to their dormitory and out into the Entrance Hall, “You’d think they could make the place a bit warmer.”

“Then where’s the fun of studying in an ancient castle?” Grantaire put in, the words broken around a yawn. The rain had kept him up last night; hammering on the small, circular window by his bed. 

The rain, and a thousand other things. 

The sky above in the Great Hall today set a gloom on those below it that, for a moment, Grantaire thought the sun had not yet risen. But it was there; some pale, watery thing behind the dark clouds the scurried about the morning sky. 

Jehan and Combeferre were already eating; or rather talking, it seemed to Grantaire, about Hesiod, around spoonfuls of porridge. 

“-I saw him as surly and brusque,” Jehan was saying, dipping his finger into the pot of honey and licking it.

“I know someone who’s surly and brusque,” Feuilly sighed, flopping onto the nearest bench and digging his fingers into his thick hair with a look of dramatic sorrow, “Did I tell you Filch took that Screaming yo-yo I got in Zonko’s at the weekend?”

“Not exactly a good example of a prefect, are you?” Grantaire mused, eyeing him with a grin.

The others joined them a few minutes before the owls began their customary delivery of post; droplets of water showering down below their blurring forms as their water-logged wings beat. 

As Bossuet dropped into the seat next to him, winding an arm around him to bid him a cheery good morning, he tried hard not to be hyper-aware of the fact that Enjolras wasn’t here.

Deliberately tearing apart the amicable olive branch Enjolras seemed to have offered him so many days ago when he’d been sitting in that lonely corridor in muddy Quidditch gear had not worked out how he had been expecting it to. And that was overly his fault. Which, he reflected now with a bitter smile, was not anything novel. 

He’d found himself trying to ignore him in the days that had followed; unable to bear the thought of talking to him again after seeing that look that had been in Enjolras’s eyes; that confused anger and hurt. He’d not met his eyes; had sat next to him in History of Magic and stared determinedly and unseeingly out of the mullioned windows, trying to force his mind away from the person next to him, and trying not to tempt himself with the possibility that maybe he was passing through Enjolras’s thoughts.

And then he’d abandoned that; with an expectancy that had taken himself by a surprise that swooped down upon him with a sickening jolt when he’d slid onto this same table next to Enjolras on Friday, and spoke as if nothing had happened. The steady blushes and hesitant smiles he’d received in return had made his throat constrict; that sickening, clammy feeling rising in his chest as if something were pressing on him; crushing him. 

And his mind had spun towards that same obsessive thought of how Enjolras perceived him; amongst the reeling curiosity as to whether he spared any contemplation for him at all, which he could never decide was better than dislike.

But the past few days had kicked up confusion in his mind, that had kept him awake more than the harsh words they’d thrown between themselves. Because Enjolras had been bewildering him in a new way. 

He noticed it in their History of Magic lesson on Monday. He seemed restless; agitated, and Grantaire had felt his eyes on him, as if he were steeling himself to say something but couldn’t find the words. Which was rather unlike Enjolras, if Grantaire’s experience was anything to go by. It set him ill at ease; as if he were waiting for a wave to crash down about his head and knock him to the ground. 

But now Enjolras wasn’t here, to agitate him with whatever it was he had to say, or to sneak quick looks at him that Grantaire never missed because Enjolras’s movements seemed to have attuned themselves to his mind like a radio he couldn’t turn off. Those quick looks were new things from the past few days, and he felt sure he hated them. It was like burning; being under Enjolras’s scrutiny. A clean, hot burning that felt wonderful and addictive, and painfully excruciating. 

The bell rang from the start of lessons five minutes later, and consigned Grantaire to History of Magic, and the fire once again. 

He went willingly. 

Enjolras was already there; at their normal desk, fair head bowed over the textbook, no doubt intrigued by what he was reading. It was only halfway across to him that Grantaire fully noticed he was sitting at the seat by the window. That same hesitancy that had draped his recent proximity to Enjolras over the past few days threatened to return, and to counteract it he swung his bag over his shoulder and dropped it loudly against the desk. Enjolras jumped, head whipping up to look at him. 

“Do the righteous gods not need to gorge themselves on Cheery-Owls?” Grantaire said, grinning toothily as he collapsed onto the chair Enjolras so normally occupied, shoving his hands in the pockets of his robes so that Enjolras couldn’t see them ball into fists; nails piercing his skin. 

“Apparently not.” Enjolras replied, sounding resigned to Grantaire’s mocking implication of his apparent divinity. “And I overslept.”

“What a wonderful concept. I wish I could say the same.” 

“Grantaire, I think we should be friends.”

Grantaire had been looking at Enjolras, neck tilted back with that mocking grin still printed on his face, but as Enjolras spoke; looking down at his textbook and the line of his jaw set, he felt the smile slip somewhat. 

He was too slow to look away, and a moment later Enjolras’s determined gaze was pinning him down; that intensity once more on his features that lowered his eyebrows and drew his into mouth a firm line.

“Pardon?” Grantaire said after a moment, and finally he seemed to be hearing what Enjolras had been trying to say for the past few days. 

Enjolras didn’t respond immediately, instead looking up at the rest of the class that were still filing into the classroom, yawning and muttering in that way that only those who still took History of Magic did. 

“I think I offended you last Saturday,” He eventually said, and he still wasn’t looking at him; leaving Grantaire staring at his rigid profile; all sharp and angled beauty. “And I’m sorry. But I still think I was right. We’re not friends. And I’d like to be.”

And then he did look over, ensnaring Grantare in those fair eyelashes and dark eyes and the quiet intensity they held. It was as if he were angry, as if they were currently arguing and he was determined that Grantaire should agree with him. And Grantaire, who believed in Enjolras, had never felt more lost as he fought against that tide that always swept him away in his effort to distance himself, to be repelled by the person sitting next to him now, looking at him so intently it hurt. 

“Friends.” He heard himself repeating, as if from a distance, and his heart was thumping dully in his chest, some beat of painful amusement, and Enjolras was still looking at him, as if he really had no clue as to what he did to Grantaire’s heart; or his hands, hidden inside his robes, whose nails were digging so tightly into his palms that they were throbbing.

“Ok.” He eventually said, voice weak, and for a moment Enjolras’s expression shifted, as if he’d seen something in Grantaire’s eyes that had fleetingly thrown him. But then it cleared, and he was met with a smile that was one of the most genuine Grantaire had seen when Enjolras had smiled at him. His heart stuttered at it, and wondered at the cruel irony that meant Enjolras would smile at something that felt akin to suffocating for Grantaire. 

Professor Binn’s voice began to osmose through the room then; rasping like chalk against a blackboard, and Enjolras turned away to look at him; that gleam of happiness still in his eyes, and Grantaire watched him, as if he’d suddenly been pushed far away, and was no longer right next to Enjolras, their elbows touching, but miles and miles away. 

A normal person would have been happy with what Enjolras had proposed, he mused bitterly, and he couldn’t keep his eyes from shifting sideways as he forced himself to face the front of the class, however deaf to Professor Binn’s droning notes. 

A normal person, would, perhaps, have rejoiced at the opportunity to bridge the distance between someone he’d been at odds with for so long. But the terms of Grantaire’s constant clashes with Enjolras were no result of dislike. It was so much the opposite it stung. Distance was what he had created for himself; a distance Enjolras had, up until now, been eager to maintain as their ideals clashed and their disagreements deepened. And, Grantaire thought resentfully, as Enjolras’s respect for him seemed to have visibly withered and died, like some exotic plant that had not survived the winter.

Perhaps it was pity that had prompted this, he thought, fingers coming up to tangle in his hair as a headache began to start lacing itself behind his eyes. That same pity he’d see in his friends’ eyes, the pity that wanted to crush him with the feeling that he wasn’t really wanted; that he was put up with at best because of _sympathy_. 

And, laying Enjolras’s reasons aside, he now had to try and contest all the more with the twisted, toxic feelings in his chest that had been pumping through his veins like blood long before he was sure of what they were. Because Enjolras wanted friendship. And Grantaire could not deny him that, like he could not deny him most things. 

He was still looking at him without being fully conscious of it, and next moment Enjolras had looked over, and their eyes had met again. Grantaire was too slow in shifting a smile back onto his face, and Enjolras was looking at him, something flickering in his eyes that Grantaire couldn’t read. 

That feeling of exhaustion settled over him as he sat there, Enjolras looking at him with that unreadable expression; an exhaustion that warmed his skin sickeningly and turning his eyelids to lead. 

Enjolras looked back at the front when Professor Binn’s cleared his throat to start his next page of notes, and as the class collectively sighed, Grantaire sighed wearily along with them.

\- 

The weekend came quickly, to Combeferre at least, with the usual build-up of excitement that always came with the first Quidditch match of term. The fact that it was Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff meant that Grantaire, Musichetta and Bahorel had spent the entire week trying amongst themselves to trip the other in the opposing house over whenever the opportunity arose.

Breakfast on Saturday morning was brought with the buzz of excitement at the match in a few hours; students wearing their house colours and laughing loudly.

Combeferre was sitting at the Ravenclaw table with _The Daily Prophet_ , Jehan, Enjolras and Eponine when Courfeyrac dropped onto the bench across from him, beaming.

“You all ready to hear my amplified, dulcet tones later on?” He grinned, pulling the nearest plate of bacon rashers towards him and tipping the entire contents onto his plate, 

“I can’t believe no one has come along yet to replace your terrible commentating.” Eponine said, her hand on her chin as she maintained her eyes on the spot at the other end of the hall, where Marius was sitting with Cosette.

Marius's date had gone remarkably well, he’d informed them all on the evening after the trip; eyes glowing and stumbling up steps as his mind seemingly swam with things far too wonderful to need to regard where he was walking. Combeferre was glad for him, glad for the way Marius smiled far often nowadays, and laughed with a readiness that now rivalled Joly and Courfeyrac.

He looked over at Courfeyrac now, who was emptying a ketchup bottle over his bacon, and absently thought he rather liked the way his curling hair was spilling into his eyes this morning. 

Grantaire, Feuilly, Marius and Joly entered the hall at that moment, and Courfeyrac promptly abandoned his bacon to throw his hands up to his mouth and cheer through his bacon at Grantaire, who was dressed in his Quidditch robes and wearing a smirk that seemed a little shy with the eyes of the hall turned on him. 

“This castle gets far too worked up about a simple matter of flying broomsticks.” He said cheerfully as he slid onto a free stretch of bench and reached for a slice of toast. 

“I believe it was you and who pushed Bahorel down the vanishing step on the third floor.” Combeferre reminded him. 

“Feuilly instigated it!” Grantaire exclaimed in mock insult, stealing the ketchup from Courfeyrac (who let out a mewl of sorrow) and beginning to ply it on his toast. 

“That was less to do with Quidditch, and more to do with Bahorel.” Feuilly said airily, looking at Grantaire’s progress with faint incredulity. 

Bahorel himself ran into the hall a moment later; a blur of six foot five in scarlet Quidditch robes, dragging Musichetta behind him as they waved to the Gryffindors cheering them. Bossuet trailed along after them, laughing raucously. 

“I’d say I’m going to knock you off your broom later, R,” Bahorel said when he’d eventually sat himself down, “But if I did I’d probably feel a little bit terrible.”

“As long as you’re ok, Bahorel.” Grantaire replied flatly, biting into his ketchup coated toast, eyes glinting with amusement. 

Combeferre snuck a look over at Enjolras as Grantaire spoke, to try and gage whether the look in his eyes as he watched Grantaire signified that the two of them had spoken about what had been on Enjolras’s mind at the weekend. 

He was looking contemplative; a frown on his face, that when he noticed Combeferre looking at him cleared, and he returned to his hardly touched breakfast. 

Combeferre sighed, and speared a grilled tomato on his fork, likening the ensuing squelch as the tomato skin broke and its hot innards spilled over the plate to the eternal stuttering nature of Grantaire and Enjolras’s relationship. 

Musichetta, Bahorel and Grantaire finished their breakfasts early in order to head down to the pitch before the rest of the school; movement that drew the eyes of nearby supporters, and caused shouts of good luck to follow them. Their progress was somewhat stilted when Grantaire stuck out his leg and Bahorel fell over it. Grantaire’s wild laughter was stemmed when Musichetta pushed him rather firmly into the table. 

The walk Combeferre made to the grounds ten minutes later with those of them that had remained was one through wet grass that slicked their shoes and sent them slipping every few steps. The sky above was an ominous grey, and Combeferre was sure he felt one or two raindrops hit against his nose as they headed towards the pitch.

Courfeyrac went towards the teachers’ stand to commentate when they entered the vast arena with its tall stands, draped in vivid red, blue, yellow and green; clashing against the dark sky. He clapped a hand on Combeferre’s back in momentary farewell, and Combeferre wondered at the brief frisson of warmth that flowed along his skin at the contact.

“This is the Hufflepuff supporters’ stand,” A third year piped up when they’d all shuffled up onto a free row, taking in the mixture of Gryffindor, Ravenclaw and Slytherin scarfs. 

“We’re are all collectively temporary star-crossed lovers splayed between our feuding families.” Jehan informed the third year, who looked too flummoxed to muster much of a response. 

Five minutes later, and the whole school appeared to be crammed into the stadium; the empty stands now filled to bursting with red and yellow streamers and flags. No one seemed particularly perturbed by the rain that was now spitting down upon their heads; them least of all, given that Joly had performed a tricky impervious charm that kept bending the droplets at bizarre angles as it strove to avoid their heads.

The noise, which had been an exited buzz before, rose to a crescendo when the Hufflepuff team walked onto the pitch, and Combeferre could just make out Grantaire’s curling head; and could sense more than see the smirk he was wearing. Feuilly, Joly and Marius hastily unrolled the banner they’d been making last night, which read in flashing letters, ‘R stop texting us.’

Courfeyrac was taking the time as they waited for the Gryffindor team to briefly advertise the meetings they held now and then to discuss prevalent problems in the Wizarding and Muggle world. 

“Check your notice boards,” He said brightly, “Ours is the stunning poster that flashes red and black when you look at it.” 

Combeferre looked over at Enjolras to share a smile over their friend’s advertising tactics, but Enjolras seemed rather intent on the players standing on the pitch. As Enjolras’s interest in Quidditch barely travelled past mild, Combeferre went to the conclusion it was more the people that had pulled Enjolras’s focus, or rather, one person in particular. He wondered if this was an ill omen, or not. 

The Gryffindor team came out a moment later; Bahorel bounding onto the pitch as Courfeyrac read out his name, easily eclipsing the rest of the team in shoulder width. When he placed himself opposite Grantaire, Grantaire barely reached to his chest.

“-And Hartley and Augustin shake hands,” Courfeyrac was informing the crowd, his cheery voice amplified to three times its normal volume. Combeferre looked over at the teachers’ stand, but Courfeyrac was nothing more than a faint blur of dark hair at the other end of the pitch, “And to the Muggle Borns in the crowd, now would be an excellent time to start singing ‘We Will Rock You.’”

Combeferre snorted loudly. 

A sharp whistle issued from the centre of the pitch, and the players so many metres below them kicked off from the ground; fourteen blurs of yellow and red zooming away from the ground too fast to take in any detail. Beside Joly, Bossuet pulled out his binoculars with a whoop muffled by his scarf.

Musichetta had the Quaffle within minutes, and Combeferre found himself extremely impressed as he watched her effortlessly punch it though the right hand hoop in seconds. 

“She’s _fantastic._ ” Joly enthused with a delicate sigh. 

Fifteen minutes later, and with Gryffindor leading thirty points to ten, Courfeyrac was having difficulty not having favourites.

“‘Course Hartley said I was a substandard moron the other day,” He was telling the crowd, “Oh look he’s been hit by a bludger. What a shame. And, incidentally, a wonderful hit by Bahorel. Did you all see that arm work?”

“What’s Grantaire doing?”

Enjolras’s voice cut over Courfeyrac’s commentary, and Combeferre turned his gaze from where Bahorel was happily waving at the stands, to a hundred or so metres up, where the yellow-robed figure of Grantaire was flying. 

Or loop-the-looping. 

The rest of the school slowly seemed to be noticing his elaborate, ridiculous flying; as laughter began to ripple across the spectators. The loop-the-loops became more wild and spiralling.

At his side, Enjolras let out a low exhalation of breath that may have been annoyance or amusement.

Grantaire abruptly stopped when Bahorel aimed a bludger at him, and a moment later had directed his broom downwards at such angle and speed that Combeferre thought for one frozen minute that he had fallen.

He was nothing more than a streak of golden yellow, pelting towards the ground in a dive that had Courfeyrac gabbling into the microphone, and the rest of the school leaning over the stands to see better. Beside him, Bossuet gave a strangled yelp as he pressed the binoculars so close to his face he hurt his eyes. 

And Combeferre tilted his head and saw, in the briefest second, the flash of gold just centimetres from the ground; hovering above the wet grass.

“-Augustin’s seen it now!” Courfeyrac was saying, and a moment later a blur of red was pursuing what the rest of them were looking at; the tiny Golden Snitch flittering above the chalked grass. They were neck and neck, and Combeferre wasn’t the only one craning his neck, hands pushed painfully against the barrier before him as Grantaire stretched out a hand; the Snitch inches from his fingers.

Augustin collided full pelt into Grantaire, and the two of them toppled violently forwards, off their broomsticks, slamming onto the mud-soaked ground and slipping forwards several feet. The collective ‘oof’ rippled across the crowd, and Joly let out a squawk, hands coming up to his mouth as they all collectively peered at the two figures. 

" _Shit_ ," Feuilly said, looking impressed.

A moment later, in an action that somehow read with the same sarcastic humour Grantaire so often displayed, he raised an arm towards the sky, still lying splayed out in the mud. 

It took everyone a considerably long time to notice the golden ball glimmering between his fingers. And then the clusters of yellow screamed their delight. 

Joly was jumping up and down, jogging Combeferre’s shoulder with the movement as he let out a stream of jubilant cries; and Courfeyrac was hoarsely shouting into the microphone,

“How did you _do_ that, R? What kind of moth-like speed was _that_?”

Combeferre suddenly felt his face grow warm, a small part of his mind suddenly claiming that sentence as something that had been meant for him. A wave of revulsion at himself at the self-importance of that thought instantly followed it, and he shook himself. 

“Come on,” Feuilly said in his ear over the racket of the stadium, fingers touching Combeferre’s arm, “We’re going down there.” 

The steps down towards the pitch were already with flooded with people, but they forcibly wound their way past disappointed Gryffindor supporters and elated Hufflepuffs, emerging at the edge of the pitch as it finally began to rain in earnest. 

Grantaire, Bahorel and Musichetta were encased in some odd hug that had them slipping over the ground, as the rest of the Hufflepuff team raced over to join their seeker. He was still covered in mud; streaks of it dripping from his hair and splashed up his face.

“That was a _wonderful_ bit of flying,” Jehan enthused the moment Grantaire noticed their presence. He snorted in response, although he did fail to hide the large grin etched on his face. It seemed genuine, Combeferre thought, and perhaps a little self-conscious,

“Nonsense,” Grantaire was now telling Jehan, “I was too busy cartwheeling for that to be nothing more than a fluke.” 

Jehan raised an eyebrow, which signified that it wasn’t Combeferre alone who refused to be led by Grantaire into believing he was not a skilled flyer. 

“Look at the state of him!” Bahorel boomed, closing an arm about Grantaire again, pressing their heads together so that the mud spread itself further. “That was the best dive I’ve ever seen!”

Grantaire smirked, but that almost feverish happiness still seemed to be lighting his face,

“I like shiny things.” Was all he said.

Courfeyrac sped towards them a moment later, arms thrown wide as if he wanted to hug all of them in one go. Which he certainly tried to do, as he pushed Enjolras, Combeferre, Bahorel and Grantaire against one another, resting his curling hair against Combeferre’s cheek.

“We won!” He cried happily, and Combeferre inhaled the scent of the curling copper strands that were skimming his face, and felt a peculiar jerk in the region of his chest. 

“That’s not really true,” Marius went to point out, but Courfeyrac swept him into the tight, scrambled hug as well, and his technicalities were stoppered. Around them still came the wave of chanting and cheering at the match’s result, and Combeferre felt oddly reeling as he found himself trying to focus on it. And not on the minty smell of Courfeyrac’s hair, or the strange warmth where his hand was pressed against his back.

“Party in the Hufflepuff Common Room,” Feuilly shouted over the noise of the stadium, “If you can get into it this time of course, Courf.”

Courfeyrac released them all at that, no doubt eager to accept the challenge of getting past the barrels that guarded the Hufflepuff dormitories that so enjoyed dousing failed intruders in vinegar. 

He met Combeferre’s eye as he did so, and smiled at him with an open fondness that halted Combeferre’s movements. And Combeferre couldn’t say why the warm smile stole itself over his mind, and somehow gave him the sensation of being set adrift; as if there were nothing else to view but that. It sent him reeling towards the memory of spring; of walking through barren countryside and finding the first bud that had sprouted through the hard, winter-baked earth. Some token of light and animation, eclipsing all else around. 

And as they began to move off towards the castle, Combeferre stayed; rooted to the ground, and wondered exactly how long he’d been looking at Courfeyrac like that without noticing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLLYYY (im so sorry i'm taking so long haa) thank you for all your lovely comments- they're 100% making my life <3
> 
> (Ketchup on toast is great by the way..)


	6. the mornings are wintry, and the nights hold gods from long ago

November moved onwards, and Enjolras forgot the warmth that summer could have as the bitter cold winds did nothing but increase, and frost constantly laced the grass that had been soft so many months ago. The world had set itself fully into the rhythm of school; of essays and weekends and hours spent in common rooms and courtyards, perusing newspapers with Courfeyrac and Combeferre, and everything trod on as it had always seemed to; without change or variation.

It was a Monday morning when he woke long before the alarm by his bed that had a nasty habit of yelling rude words at him after he’d ignored it too long.

It was cold in the dormitories below the castle; the feeling not bettered by the grey stone walls and green tinted features of the room he’d slept in for six years. The room had reminded him at first, rather horribly, of his parents’ house; of that large, characterless house with its too high ceilings, long corridors that had always seemed so devoid of any warmth. But, gradually, he’d come to associate it with the structure it stood in; of Hogwarts and the people that dwelt within it. 

The coldness of his parents and the world they inhabited had receded over the years; a memory only drudged up over summer days when he could not stay with Courfeyrac or Combeferre, or any of his friends. Along with the occasional stiffly worded correspondence that Euryalus flew in with now and then; the words of parents who couldn’t understand why their son cared quite as much as he did; words to a son they had nothing in common with, and words that crossed a mutually constructed distance. 

He knew it was strange, knew it could be considered a pity; and there were days when he’d longed for the love he’d found in Courfeyrac’s home. But the world never stopped handing out situations for pity, and he was not the type to dwell on the things he did not have in his own life. He was distracted constantly; distracted by the lot of others; and so many things slipped by him barely remarked or noticed; such as the winter that had crept upon the castle and twined the Forbidden Forest with frost. 

His feet were cold now, in the bed he’s grown slightly too tall for; and after a moment’s hesitation he sat upright, rubbing the last of sleep from his eyes and swinging his feet up and out from under the last semblance of warmth his duvet was providing. 

He dressed for nothing better to do, and after listening to the dormitory that was silent spare the odd snores and heavy breathing of his housemates, he headed out through the gently creaking door and down the stairs into the deserted common room.

He paced restlessly a while; past the empty grate where last night a fire had been warming the tall, long room; past someone’s cat that was curled up on the dark green sofa, watching him with large amber eyes. And eventually he turned on his heel, away from the viewless stretch of high windows, and out of the still common room towards the upper floors of the castle.

It was too early for anyone else to be out of bed yet; and when he arrived at the Entrance Hall and looked contemplatively at the high, open doors to the Great Hall and saw the empty stretches of the house tables, he instinctively and inexplicably turned right, towards the doors to the large courtyard outside. 

The air outside was freezing and draped in the hazy light of early dawn. The courtyard spanned high above the lake here; the viaduct to his left as he walked past the silent cloisters that were shrouded in misty morning air. 

He wasn’t sure exactly where he was walking; but the cold air felt fresh to his lungs, and as he pulled his robes around him he took comfort in the solitude that seemed to increase its presence now that he was out of doors. 

He breathed a deep lungful of that crisp winter air, and let his thoughts turn to what they were so often eager to fall upon of late. It was an almost resigned manner that overcame him when it came to Grantaire; as if he’d gotten under his skin without Enjolras noticing. 

He couldn’t have said whether it was from the years of bickering; of not seeing eye to eye as those twisted mocking smiles had flashed at him. Or whether it was this recent, new development; this development of Grantaire so seemingly happy in accepting Enjolras’s terms of friendship; only to sink into sadness whenever he thought Enjolras was not watching him.

He’d not understood it, not really; and couldn’t link it to any dislike Grantaire might feel towards him. And then he’d had the spiralling, awful thought that maybe Grantaire _didn’t_ hate him; no matter how often it might have seemed that way, and how much seemed argue the contrary. And more alarming had been the sentiment he’d been holding onto for the past week now; the sentiment that he was fervently and wonderfully glad of it. 

But then there had been that other somewhat crippling and sinking thought that had kept him awake long into the nights as everyone around him had slept; warm and comfortable. The feeling that he was somehow causing Grantaire the apparent misery he was so sure he could see etched across those features that would quickly twist into mocking or gleeful forms whenever he was in the limelight.

It was like he’d tried to construct some kind of wall when it came to Grantaire; a wall that Grantaire would so easily and constantly destroy it was almost comical. He’d always been there; always able to cut through to him in a way that nobody else ever could; in a way that would leave him smarting, but never full of hatred. He’d disliked Grantaire now and then; disliked the way he mocked him and taunted him; disliked the way he’d put himself down with an ease that came from years of practice. But he didn’t hate him; and he didn’t think he ever had.

And reflecting on it now; as the cold bit somehow soothingly at his skin as he walked down old, worn steps towards the frost covered grounds, he didn’t think it was possible to hate Grantaire. He couldn’t see how hate could be directed towards someone with the rapidity of wit he possessed; someone who could summon Ovid and Oscar Wilde from memory; someone who underneath brash comments and harsh laughter possessed a heart that Enjolras was starting to realise was perhaps better and kinder than those of most people he knew. 

He reflected that they were friends now, and wondered why the happiness that should come from that seemed to stutter slightly. 

He didn’t know exactly why he ended up walking towards the Owlery. Euryalus brought him nothing he looked forward to reading, but perhaps there was something soothing about the building set high on a craggy hill away across the grounds, and the gentle rustle of feathers and the slow blinking of eyes that watched him quizzically. 

The Owlery was as devoid of people as the castle halls and grounds had been, and he breathed in the heavy, damp, not altogether pleasant smell of the place with relief. By the door, Euryalus made a small chatter of greeting from his perch, one eye open.

Out through the glassless window before him, the grounds sank away in the mist; the high hills beyond it looming silently in the early morning; crows swooping towards the trees whose needles and branches faded into the haze. It was hard to imagine the Muggle world existed at all when he looked out at the somewhat eerie, morning sight below him. But exist it did. Somewhere, miles and miles away, London had never slept; its streetlights slowly flickering off as the rush of the city swept onwards and the scent of coffee began to pour from café windows. He hated to think of worlds so divided; but just now, standing alone with owls beginning to slumber after a night of hunting, looking a distant mountains, he couldn’t help but feel set apart from the world so many of his friends knew; from the world he wished was not quite so separate.

He didn’t hear the footsteps on the stairs outside until they crunched down on frost at the doorway. And then he turned round to find himself staring at Grantaire. His heart gave a jolt that seemed out of sync with the calm, stillness of the frosty morning; haze swirling about them and beginning to make the strands of his hair drip.

“You’re up early,” Grantaire commented after a moment, and there was a cautiousness to his voice, an unnerving absence to the usual jibes and mockery. And Enjolras couldn’t look away; staring at Grantaire who seemed frozen at the doorway five metres away. Far above them in the rafters, an owl hooted low and hushed. 

“I wanted to walk.” Enjolras said stupidly, watching Grantaire’s breath slowly steam; lacing the air about his lips. “What are you doing here?”

Grantaire looked at him a moment, and his face was unreadable; eyes hooded as his breath pooled about him.

“It’s Bahorel’s birthday next week,” He finally said simply, eyes boring into his own, “Figured an order from Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes would make him happy.” He held up what looked like an order form, unnecessarily, not looking away from Enjolras’s face.

“I’d forgotten.” Enjolras replied, feeling as though the words came from a distance, and he was oddly, barely conscious of what he was saying, and hadn’t quite got round to wondering why Grantaire’s eyes held such a pull. 

“I don’t think any of us are surprised,” Grantaire said, and he moved off then, towards him, eyes dropping away from Enjolras’s as he walked, and that pull still didn’t seem to lift, and Enjolras was instead watching the way the weak morning light lit on the shadows under Grantaire’s eyes and sharpened his features. That lopsided smile Enjolras’s eyes knew so well had broken his face as he’d spoken. 

“Do you want to borrow Euryalus?” He heard himself say, and Grantaire looked over at him, and the smile slipped slightly. After a pause, a semblance of that old smirk flittered onto his face,

“I _do_ need this delivery to fly over Rutulians drowned in sleep and wine.” He grinned, “You know, it might have been better to name your owl after a more fortunate character.”

“There doesn’t seem to be an awful lot of them,” Enjolras responded, crossing to where Euryalus was pretending to sleep in a small crevice by the door, puffing up his feathers. But perhaps he sensed what was on Enjolras’s mind, and it took only a little persuasion for him to clamber down onto his arm.

Grantaire had been watching his movements; that same hooded expression on his face, and as Enjolras moved towards him, Euryalus balanced on his upper arm, he didn’t pull that usual smile onto his face that so often resulted in mocking, rather harsh words. Instead he remained still as Enjolras stopped by his side, and he could hear his rasping breathing as he pressed his arm to his, and Euryalus’s sharp claws left his skin as he stepped over to Grantaire, making a low, soft chatter with his beak.

“Though perhaps Euryalus considered himself fortunate.” Grantaire said quietly, and they were still standing together, Enjolras realised dimly; their arms pressed together as Euryalus stood between them, head turning at the sound of his name, “He had the glory of a soldier’s death by the side of a man he loved, and he now stands immortal to time’s memory.” 

Enjolras could think of nothing to say to that, curling strands of their hair skimming as he looked at Grantaire’s downturned features; eyelashes painted dark against his cheeks as he slowly reached up and ran a gentle finger over Euryalus’s plumage. The owl closed its eyes happily. 

“I don’t mean to be a bad friend.” Enjolras finally said, and he wasn’t sure whether he was talking about forgetting Bahorel’s birthday, or of the apparent misery Grantaire had been showing over the past weeks. 

Grantaire’s finger paused in its ministrations, and Euryalus nipped at him as if reproachful at his abandonment.

“We know you don’t.” Grantaire said after a minute, and his words sounded measured, as if he were biting something down that he wanted to voice, and Enjolras shared that sentiment; felt the strangling feelings in his chest that he couldn’t quite form into words with the ease he so usually could. “And you’re not.” 

Enjolras snorted. 

“I can’t remember birthdays,” He said, and Grantaire’s hand slowly moved from the owl to the order form in the pocket of his robes, “I can’t offer consolation or support as well as any of you; I wanted to throttle Marius after he noticed Cosette.”

“We all wanted to throttle Marius.” Grantaire replied, and he sent Enjolras a smile; not one of his toothy, lopsided ones, but a genuine one that arched his eyebrows and brightened his eyes. There was an odd swoop in Enjolras’s stomach at it. “The point is to not throttle him, I suppose.” He gave a light touch to Euryalus’s plumage, and the owl held out his leg for him, staring at him dolefully. 

“Besides,” He continued, tying the order form to Euryalus’s leg, “I’m not the best person to consult on being a good friend.”

“What do you mean?”

Grantaire finished tying the letter to Euryalus and looked up at him. He was still standing close to him; close enough that Enjolras could see the small dips of skin that pressed inwards on his cheeks when he gave a humourless smile. 

“I mean Courfeyrac and Joly are who you go to in order to feel warm and wanted.” He responded, dropping his eyes from Enjolras and shoving his hands into the pockets of his robes, “And Bossuet to make you laugh. And Eponine will hear me out no matter what shit I’m coming out with.” 

He gave a shrug, eyes on Euryalus who had hopped from his arm to the window ledge, apparently unsure of whether to leave. The shrug was small; a slight movement that seemed to be aiming for casualness; a casualness Enjolras was not quite convinced of. 

He was not entirely sure at what Grantaire was saying; or veiling beneath that air of unconcern, and the humourless smile still on his lips. And then he thought of Grantaire’s so often self-deprecating comments, of his bitterness that day in History of Magic when Enjolras had told him he put himself down too often. And perhaps it came from the sudden thought he was giving Grantaire; the fact that Grantaire was now on his mind in a way he never really had been before; that where Enjolras felt inadequate, Grantaire felt insecure.

And a wave of crippling guilt washed over him, for all the times he’d wished Grantaire would leave them alone, and take his mocking retorts and unnecessary comments with him. And that nauseating regret steepened when he realised how often he’d voiced the same sentiment; perhaps not always in words, but they’d been voiced nonetheless. 

Grantaire was looking back at him now, and perhaps he’d noticed the frozen expression Enjolras was sure he was wearing, for he looked a little quizzical. From the window ledge, Euryalus gave a low, impatient hoot. 

“That doesn’t mean people don’t value you.” Enjolras heard himself saying quietly; the words cautious and possessing a timidity that felt so new it seemed he was somehow treading deep water and had realised there was no land nearby. “That doesn’t mean you’re not valued.” 

That bitter, mirthless snort of laughter sounded in Grantaire’s throat, and he moved forwards to gesture to Euryalus that he could leave. The screech owl took flight with a rustle of feathers, swooping out of the arching window and out into the morning that was still veiled with swirling, silent mist. 

“I mean it, Grantaire.” 

“You value me then?” Grantaire replied, and he was smirking at him now, a semblance of his old self returned as if that sarcastic nature were some kind of wall that would not let pleasant truths reach him. “Past the irreplaceable value I provide as someone who disagrees with you all the time, that is?”

Enjolras looked at him, and their eyes were locked on one another’s again, but along with that odd, incomprehensible ability to look away, he felt that crippling guiltiness, that made him feel that, when it came to Grantaire, not only was he an appalling friend, but he was not a very nice person. 

“I’ve never shown it.” He said quietly. And Grantaire snorted again at that, but he didn’t look away, and there wasn’t much confrontation in the way his grey eyes stayed on Enjolras’s.

“No, you haven’t.” He replied, and then he gave a small, half smile, “But, I suppose, neither have I.” 

The smile turned a little stronger, and he was still looking at Enjolras, no trace of mocking on those features Enjolras could not drag his eyes from. And it was odd to think he had felt Grantaire had ever hated him here, as they stood face to face in the dim morning; feathers rustling around them and the birds nesting in the Forbidden Forest beginning to stir and sing as the sun rose further, pale and invisible through the misty cloud. 

“It’s nearly breakfast.” Grantaire said quietly after moments Enjolras hadn’t been counting, “And I don’t know about you, but I have a History of Magic essay to start.” 

Enjolras, who had remembered the essay the previous night and therefore did not share the same dilemma, found himself rather resenting the idea of breakfast; as Grantaire took a step backwards from him. And it felt odd to be standing so far apart when his heart was somehow beating quite as fast as it was. 

And he followed Grantaire from the small, circular room where the owls were sleeping as the sun rose higher, and out into the cold grounds where the ground was still hard and cased in grey, that gave the impression that they were walking through the clouds that were still heavy and low above their heads. 

They walked in a silence that Enjolras couldn’t decide was awkward or not. Grantaire was quiet beside him, frost crunching under his feet, and every so often humming a bar of something, low and rasping, and it came jilted and hesitant, as if he were forcing himself to do it to maintain some semblance of that nonchalance he had acted with earlier. 

And Enjolras was left to reflect exactly why his hands were fists at his sides, and why he had been so unable to look away from Grantaire in that cold, small owlery. And why he was now so utterly conscious and over aware that Grantaire was walking next to him now. And at first he couldn’t really explain it; exactly why his heart was beating so fast. 

But perhaps he did know, perhaps it was something he’d known for a while and was only just realising now; when over the past few weeks he’d made himself overly conscious of Grantaire, and his smiles and laughs and the look in his eyes. That consciousness that had been sparked by a thousand things; by their proximity in History of Magic, from the heat that would rush to his face when Grantaire teased him. And from the way he’d find himself looking at him, and realising just how much he did look at Grantaire. 

And that alertness to Grantaire had seemed to kick up this wave of sentiment inside his chest, which was perhaps appropriate when he thought Grantaire’s eyes held a little of the sea in them. And those feelings were of a kind he’d never expected to really feel about anyone; much less the person he’d believed he’d disliked for so long; one with mocking smiles and hooded eyes that knew just how to irk him and lost no opportunity in doing so. One that he’d believed had disliked _him_ for as long a time. 

Grantaire hummed 'You Charmed the Heart Right Out of Me' under his breath, and Enjolras felt that swoop again, some nauseous feeling that made the palms of his hands hot despite the cold November air that had felt biting moments before.

The Entrance Hall was no longer the silent place of dawn when they headed through the double doors. The smell of breakfast and the loud chatter of students eating in the Great Hall floated through to the large room, and Nearly Headless Nick was gliding down the marble staircase, ruff bobbing ominously. 

Grantaire still said nothing as they headed towards the doors to the hall, and it was only as they drew back to let a couple of second years in before them that he grazed eyes with Enjolras. And then that same heat was rising to Enjolras’s face again, one that made him duck into the hall and head blindly to where he could see Bahorel’s broad shoulders, wondering how on earth he had found himself in this situation, and thinking of Grantaire’s amused eyes, and knowing he was fully conscious of why.

“You look like you’ve been swimming.” Feuilly informed him when he’d sat down, “What have you been doing?”

“We fancied a swim with Giant Squid, of course.” Grantaire replied, flopping down into a seat, and he had placed himself opposite Enjolras, and Enjolras had never been more torn between deciding whether something was a good thing or not. “And Enjolras was buying birthday presents.”

“No, I wasn’t.” Enjolras interrupted firmly before Grantaire got into his stride, and Grantaire’s eyes flicked to him with amusement. He was still looking at Enjolras when Combeferre, who seemed to feel there was some kind of danger, leaned over towards him and asked,

“Marmalade, Enjolras?”

Enjolras took it absently as Grantaire’s attention shifted to his back, smirking as he rummaged around inside it before bringing out sheets of crumpled parchment and an old, battered book, and slamming the contents onto the table. Bossuet jumped and spilt his glass of milk. 

“What was the latest charming essay title, Enjolras?” Grantaire asked, through the quill he’d placed in his mouth as he attempted to locate a bottle of ink in the bag on his lap. Eyes grazed his again, half hidden by curling hair.

“'Were the 1811 Ministry reforms effective in their goals, and why.’” Enjolras responded distantly, attempting to unscrew the jar of marmalade and focus on Grantaire before him, and attempting to get a reign on the erratic and totally bizarre reeling sensation inside him. 

“I don’t suppose a capitalized ‘no’ and ‘because this is the government we’re talking about’ is going to quite cut it?” 

“I’d award you an ‘O’ for sure,” Courfeyrac grinned, who was busy wiping jam from his chin. 

“Thank you,” Grantaire said with insincere delight, and then he was leaning forwards across the table and Enjolras found the jar of marmalade being taken from his hands. “It’s not a History of Magic essay if it’s not riddled with cynicism.” His knuckles whitened as he turned the jar, and it issued a soft pop as it gave. And he sent Enjolras a wink. 

It was half an hour later, when they were all getting to their feet to head towards their lessons, and Grantaire was still scribbling on the parchment, that Enjolras realised the feelings rattling in his chest were not so like a tidal wave as he’d originally thought. They felt like a tempest; one that had built and sprung up without warning, and was pounding indefinitely; sending him lost and clueless and reeling. And it might have been amusing, to realise just how astounded he was, if he’d paused to consider it.

And if he ever cared to imagine drowning, he considered dazedly as he watched Grantaire gather up his things, it would probably be akin to this.

-

Any semblance of warmth that the sun had, hidden as it had been behind clouds all day, instantly dropped away when it set in the late afternoon, and the sky gradually cleared. By dinnertime the corridors of the castle were freezing, and walking up the staircases to the warm Ravenclaw Common Room had never seemed like so great a distance.

And now Combeferre was sprawled on the floor next to Jehan, in the small alcove of the common room over which arched nothing but lead paned glass. The recess acted as an observatory, and Combeferre was infinitely glad of it; for fear that Jehan would otherwise no doubt have forced him to walk all the way up to the exposed, freezing roof of the Astronomy Tower to complete his homework.

Currently, however, he was somewhat distracted from his work. 

“Cassiopeia looks _beautiful_ tonight,” He said, the side of his face Combeferre could see screwed up as he peered through the eyepiece of the telescope that was propped over him; pointed upwards at the stars. “Isn’t it horrible to think her punishment has lasted across the centuries?”

Combeferre might have thought Jehan believed it to be horrible, if he hadn’t been speaking in that faraway, awed voice when he talked of mythical atrocities and other romantic melancholies. 

“Mmm.” Combeferre said in a noncommittal tone, only half listening to Jehan’s musings. His mind was not upon the far flung constellations above them, but instead light years away, here on the ground. 

And he was thinking of spring. Or rather, the bizarre spring he’d conjured for himself where Courfeyrac was concerned. 

He’d been thinking of him in the days following the Quidditch match; thoughts that he’d suppress as best he could when Courfeyrac was near him. Because realising unexpectedly and quite suddenly that the affection he felt for Courfeyrac was a little stronger than friendship was debilitating and unnerving in a way that he had never had to experience.

And what was worse was that he had no one to talk to about it.

“Combeferre,” Jehan’s voice drifted across the self-pity Combeferre had encased himself reluctantly in, “Can you get Mars in the finderscope? I’ve lost it.” 

“Right,” Combeferre said absently, and he shifted so he was sitting up, looking upwards as he pulled the findersope above the large, delicate telescope towards him, and tilting his head to look into it.

The workings of the telescope ticked softly as he readjusted it, looking at the magnified sky before him, and he wondered why he didn’t just tell someone. It was aching to carry this feeling, he thought. It had become a heavy burden in his chest, growing heavier, descending with juddering halts like the very mechanisms of the telescope under his fingers. 

He left the soft amber glow of Mars in the centre of his view from the finderscope, and lay back down beside Jehan once more. To his left, through the thin curtain they’d drawn to shield them from the light of the rest of the common room, laughter flowed from the students that were still up; completing homework, gossiping, and by the sounds of the occasional bang and acrid smell of smoke, dabbling with potion ingredients.

“Can I ask your advice on something?” He heard himself saying before he’d thought about it long enough to decide against it. 

“Of course you can,” Jehan responded, looking down from the telescope to note something on the parchment he had balancing on his knee. Ink was staining his fingers, and Combeferre didn’t have the heart yet to point out the streaks of it that were smudged across his nose. 

“I think,” Combeferre began, and the words came hesitantly, and he immediately felt this was a terrible idea. But Jehan was silent next to him, and the telescope ticked gently, and he heard the words tumbling out with a rashness he had never been conscious of possessing before. “I _know_ I like someone, more than a friend, but they already mean a lot to me. And I don’t want to jeopardize anything by what I’m feeling now.”

He’d half expected Jehan to make a cooing noise and beg for details, and he was overly conscious of the heat that had flooded to his cheeks as he’d spoken. But Jehan had his eyes fixed on the sky above them, and it was a time before he spoke. 

“That’s a tricky one.” He finally said, and Combeferre felt a rush of affection for him. “You obviously don’t want to upset the balance you’ve got if they don’t return your feelings.”

“So you think I should do nothing?”

“Actually,” Jehan said lightly, and he flashed Combeferre a quick grin before returning to the eyepiece, “I was just about to say that I would consider it a crime to try and swallow wonderful feelings like that.”

“They’re not too wonderful right now,” Combeferre muttered, but his heart was racing nonetheless, and Jehan let out a muted laugh,

“Would you rather you didn’t have them?”

Combeferre considered that a moment, looking up at Mars blinking at him, and picturing indifference towards Courfeyrac. Of being ignorant of his laughter, and the smiles directed at him; the glitter his dark eyes would hold when he was amused. And then he gave a mumbled, “No.”

“Well, I think, as a wise Jedi once said, you must do what you feel is right.” Jehan told him, tracing a finger over the groves of the eyepiece still rested above him, “If you feel you’ll always regret not saying anything, then perhaps you should.”

“Perhaps I should.” Combefere repeated in an undertone. Mars was still glittering above them, named long ago after the god of war that the Romans of centuries past had worshipped. He’d been the guardian of agriculture too, Combeferre mused; through his power and strength summoning from the unyielding landscape food and plenty. Mars had let things grow and flourish, and Combeferre looked up at that planet now, so many millions of miles away, and thought perhaps letting things grow and flourish was not a bad thing to do. 

The fear he had been feeling for the past few days was still there; heavy in his chest; and it was a nauseating fear. And it had almost intensified now with Jehan telling him lightly to try, because he had validated Combeferre’s daydreams of telling Courfeyrac and taken away so many of the excuses he had conjured up for himself.

And maybe if he was brave he would, he contemplated, as Jehan began to hum quietly beside him, returning to his star chart. He’d try to find that courage which suddenly seemed to demand a lot more from him than anything else ever had.

And his heart might lurch at that prospect, but at the same time it felt indescribably lighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for being patient with me oh wow <3
> 
> ahhhh thank you to everyone who is reading/commenting/kudo'sing(???) you are all making my day and I hope you continue to enjoy!!
> 
> also I am hereby dedicating this chapter to the lovely Marit/apollopermestu who is snowed under with uni work you poor poor soul


	7. the snowstorms come, but gold still glitters in places

The weeks dragged resolutely onwards with the kind of winter that was sharp and crisp, and welcome the early side of Christmas. The castle remained freezing despite the constant fires that roared in the common room fireplaces, and the torches that flickered in their brackets on the walls. The panes on windows frosted over; tinting the view to the grounds outside distorted and pale.

Then, in the last week of November, snow finally began to fall; so fast that by the next morning it had covered the ground two foot deep. 

“I think I preferred the rain,” Grantaire informed Bossuet one Monday as Feuilly hit him with the third snowball he’d bewitched to fly at their heads as they walked back up towards the castle after one particularly cold Herbology lesson. 

It was now Tuesday lunchtime, and Grantaire had decided he had not particularly meant his earlier comment.

He, Joly and Feuilly been rummaging around the previous evening in the chest of drawers and blanket boxes about the common room and stumbled across several pairs of ice skates. And after carefully ensuring they had enough, they’d presented them to everyone at breakfast. A sadly small percentage of them had been receptive to the concept, and the result was unravelled now; as Grantaire, Eponine, Jehan and Feuilly stood far out on the frozen surface of the lake; their breath steaming and feet suspended on twin strips of blades. 

The snow had caused an eerie silence to settle over the castle grounds; in that muted way only thick snow could. The sky above them was a warm grey today; promising further bouts later. Far over at the other end of the lake, the evergreen trees of the Forbidden Forest stood draped in heavy snow; branches sagging from the weight. 

Grantaire clapped his gloved hands together; shaking off the last clumps of ice that had stuck to the woollen material from snowballs and misshapen snowmen constructing earlier in the lunch hour; sliding slowly forward over thick ice that was a flowing clash of white and bright blue beneath him. 

“‘And after summer evermore succeeds barren winter, with his wrathful nipping cold.’” Jehan quoted happily as he stuck a leg slowly out behind him, raising his arms in some steady, almost mocking form of gracefulness. 

“This is definitely not as easy as I thought it was.” Feuilly grunted, as he lost his balance for the third time, arms working briefly, in an impressively productive attempt to stay upright. From the bank, Grantaire was fairly sure he heard Bahorel catcall. 

“Go and drag Bahorel out here.” Eponine told Feuilly, looking towards the bank with an amused grin on her lips. “They must have finished that appalling snowman by now.” 

“You forget a group of optimists are currently trying to create art.” Grantaire informed her, as Feuilly began to stagger back towards where the ice met the thick snow; arms wobbling cautiously.

“Hmm,” Eponine agreed, lips pursing as she looked at the cluster of students in the distance. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, setting her dark hair livid, hands balled into her robes. Grantaire followed her gaze, watching their group of friends clustered around the precarious and crude heap of snow that was apparently a nearly completed snowman. He heard the laughter from Courfeyrac, and the low, indistinguishable comments in Combeferre’s low voice, and excited chatter from Joly. Enjolras’s hair was gleaming in the pale light.

Eponine’s shoulder hit against his as she slipped, and his feet slid forwards slightly beneath him. He turned it into an effortless, if somewhat ridiculous, pirouette, turning to face her with a triumphant grin. She snorted. 

“Come on,” She said, taking his arm and moving off in the direction of the other end of the lake, “Let’s see how far we get before we fall over.”

Grantaire was insulted at the implication, feeling he’d managed to retain at least some skill over the years when it came to ice-skating, but moved after her without comment. They left the bank behind them, and he refused to turn round to look to see who had noticed.

“How are you ‘Ponine?” He asked her as the sounds of the students faded jaggedly, leaving them with the silence of snow and the soft, wet noise of lumps falling from straining, surrendering branches. 

She gave a shrug at his words, hands still in her pockets; a semblance of odd grace about her thin, hunched shoulders as she moved effortlessly over the ice.

Some days she’d shake off that question, with the same forced amusement he would have used, sometimes with waspish anger. And he’d feel terrible for asking, and wished that he hadn’t. 

But then some days she’s answer him, and they’d sit in some secluded corner of the old castle now perched high above them, as snowflakes began to idly make their way down from the sky once more, and they’d talk in low undertones. And he didn’t know about Eponine, because her mask and armour were even better constructed than his, but his heart felt lighter after those times. 

She sent him a look now, eyes seemingly expressionless and the corners of her mouth turned down. 

“The school gave Gavroche the books he needed this year,” She said in a light tone, looking back towards the bank in the far distance; where the trees of the Forbidden Forest stood, “So there’s that.”

“How is he?” Grantaire ventured to ask, thinking of the small, vibrant first-year who had shook his hand upon their meeting as if they had both been grown men.

“He’s at Hogwarts.” Eponine responded, as if Gavroche’s happiness were a direct result of his location. And Grantaire could not agree more. No matter what he felt here; despite those twisted feelings that had ensnared his insides like coiled ivy, there seemed to be a warmth about Hogwarts. Even now, when the tips of his fingers felt frozen, and his breath was pooling out before him on frosted air. 

“ _That_ sucks.” Eponine suddenly said, her voice suddenly taking on a biting tone, as if she hadn’t quite wanted to say the words, but she’d surrendered to them anyway. Grantaire looked over at her, taking in where her eyes were fixed, back on the group of students building that misshapen snowman. He followed her eyes, with a sinking feeling of certainty as to what she was talking about, and he watched Cosette pull Marius to his feet; his back caked in snow. 

He’d have made light of if she had spoken in any other way. But now her eyebrows were lowered, the skin between her eyes puckered; and the anger lined there appeared forced, because Eponine always appeared so strong and angry and perhaps that was the only way she knew how to continue. And Grantaire had looked over at her countless times, and perhaps hoped for a kindred spirit; but Eponine’s seemed so much fiercer, like it was a flame in her chest; not one that was sickly and muted. 

“You still like him?” He finally offered, and the words sounded pathetic, but maybe that was why Eponine smiled slightly at them,

“I suppose I do.” She told him, “I should be happy for him, shouldn’t I? But it’s been a pretty shitty month or so.”

And those words brought down a wave of guilt on Grantaire, as they both stood there, feet sliding slowly across the thick ice. Because he hadn’t been there for Eponine; he’d been wrapped in his own mind and summoning up melancholy thoughts about the figure just visible on the snowy bank, hair gleaming in the muted light. And he’d let Eponine watch as Marius watched Cosette; he, one of the few people who had guessed and asked, had let Eponine be with that feeling alone.

“ _Shit_ ,” He murmured, “I’m so sorry.” 

She shrugged at that, pulling her hat further down as the hesitant snowflakes thickened. 

“Why should you be?” She asked, tucking loose strands of her hair back under the wool. She still had that frozen look of fierceness on her face. 

“Because I’ve been an awful friend.” He moved, feet slipping graciously in his haste to move before her, gloved hands coming up to rest on her shoulders. “You know I’m here for you, even when I’m stuck in a vortex of uselessness?” 

“I haven’t needed you.” She said, and she didn’t speak the words to hurt, Grantaire knew by now. They were the same defences he used. Defences that worked better than any kind of steel.

And a moment later, she’d wound her arms around him, a movement muffled by soft wool and robes, her cheek coming to rest against his. There were some unspoken words in that embrace, Grantaire thought; words that spoke of that mutual feeling of the days when it was so hard to get out of bed, and words that could only begin to describe that feeling that would see Grantaire sleepless and staring blindly into the darkness of his dormitory as everyone about him slept.

He put a gloved hand against her head, pulling the embrace tighter, as if it would somehow squeeze the guilt out of him, or force some warmth of happiness onto the two of them.

“Your skin is fucking freezing.” She murmured after a second or two, and he let out a hoarse laugh.

Bahorel interrupted them soon afterwards; on ice skates Grantaire later found out Combeferre had enlarged in order for them to actually fit him. He sent them splaying backwards onto the ice in an unceremonious heap, and set Eponine using a tirade of curses that didn’t hide the small, genuine grin on her lips. 

“You’re very good at ice-skating, R.” Cosette stated when they’d eventually staggered within hearing shot of the bank. She was standing with her hands in her pockets, and shook her long hair back from her face with a movement Grantaire had learnt over the past few weeks was a customary one. He couldn’t help but like her; admired the way she’d settled herself within their group of friends so effortlessly and boldly, and perhaps her kind and lively character was half the reason for the pain Eponine had.

“It seemed I had to be good at something,” He grinned, rummaging for his normal shoes in the depths of the bag he’d kept slung on his back, “So it was naturally a seasonal thing.” 

“What on _earth_ is this?” Feuilly asked, shoving Grantaire playfully on the shoulder as he walked over to the snowman the rest of them had been constructing; ignoring the self-deprecating comment. The snowman looked woefully back at them all; its eye had started to slide down its face, leaving a long streak of coal.

“We’re not so good at sculpture.” Bossuet informed him without shame. His ears were still steaming slightly from the Pepper-Up potion he had got in the Hospital Wing for his head cold. Sometimes, Grantaire was enormously pleased whenever he developed a cough; the shot of warmth and fire along his veins that potion caused was like basking in the sunlight. 

He took care not to look at Enjolras as they began to gather up their belongings when the snow had lost its initial charm and had instead been realised for the icy wetness it had given their clothing and skin. 

Not looking at him felt easier than its alternative, he had discovered. It had been days since he’d stumbled across him in the Owlery, shrouded in early morning haze. Days since his heart felt light with something that couldn’t possibly be called hope; but was just as terrifying as it none the less. The sleepless nights had proved worse with it; he felt nervous and edgy and couldn’t quite pin down _why_. 

There was now a lightness and steadiness to Enjolras's words when he addressed him; when Grantaire could not avoid him. He’d noticed his scrutiny that morning, as he noticed most about Enjolras; and unable to think of its reason he’d grown uneasy. He couldn’t place the change that had woven its way into Enjolras’s treatment of him. 

Grantaire would still fire quips and remarks at him, and Enjolras would deflect them as he always had; but the change was still apparent; apparent in the way he could feel Enjolras’s eyes on him. And then with that lightness and steadiness that thing akin to hope had begun to plant itself in his chest. And it was like a stubborn weed he could not uproot. He had learnt about hoping; the sadistic danger of it, and so he had avoided Enjolras; half-wishing that feeling would finally wither and dry from its lack of light. 

His gaze grazed Enjolras’s on the walk back up to the castle, and the feeling spread its leaves instantly as if it had been touched by sun.

-

“Where’s your sense of frivolity, Enjolras?” Feuilly asked a few days later, leaning around Combeferre and Courfeyrac to fix Enjolras with a look that was apparently supposed to be scolding, “Decorate with some _flare_.”

It was the first week of December, and they, along with the rest of the prefects, were currently helping the decoration of the Great Hall for Christmas during yet another a break time when the snow was heavy in the sky; falling overhead and giving the impression that the hall was suspended against fast moving, grey cloud. The task of decorating would have been exceptionally easier if Peeves hadn’t been swooping about, helping by throwing tinsel into the air and trying to strangle passer-by’s with it. 

“I thought it looked fine.” Enjolras said, with something that felt like defensiveness in his voice, studying the corner of the tree he had been allocated. There did seem to be a lot less glitter this side now he looked at the branches Feuilly had been concentrating on.

Feuilly responded with a doleful headshake. He still had a cluster of silver streamers stuck in his hair that Courfeyrac had draped about him when the boxes of decorations had first been handed out, and they shimmered with the movement. 

Christmas at Hogwarts had always given a uniqueness and liking for the event that Enjolras had never taken much pain to like before. It was another feature of growing up in that big, cold house he supposed; and the guilt and mild repulsion of outlandish gifts from wealthy relatives. 

But here the festoons of holly that wrapped the banisters of every moving staircase, and enchanted snow that toppled from the hall’s ceiling carried none of those past associations. They carried a warmth, one heightened by the fires that crackled and popped; surrounded by garlands and wreaths twisted with pinecones and red ribbons. And he felt sure it was mostly due to those of them that stayed in the castle over the holiday; and the escape from the old house that it offered. 

“Are you staying over the holidays, Enjolras?” Combeferre asked him, as if he had read his mind. He was standing beside Courfeyrac; and his hand was around his wrist as he showed him the wand movement that changed the colour of the bauble Courfeyrac had just hung from red to gold; something Courfeyrac had taken issue with. There was a rigidity to both of their postures, and Enjolras wondered at it unsuccessfully before responding.

“I am.” 

Feuilly made a whoop that seemed to signify mutuality, before tossing some fine silver threads over the tree with a mock dramatic flourish.

“I think I’ll go home this year,” Combeferre continued, seemingly determined to look away from Courfeyrac “Two weeks does seem like a long time, though.” 

“You’re welcome to come and stay at mine,” Courfeyrac told him brightly, and for some reason a rush of colour went to his cheeks, “Prince Combeferre is welcome anytime, my sister has informed me.”

Combeferre laughed at that, and told Courfeyrac he’d love to visit. He was still smiling when he turned back to the tree, sending shimmering, delicate gold baubles from his wand that laced themselves to the trees like bubbles. 

“I think Eponine is staying too,” Feuilly said, and there was a casualness to his tone that gave Enjolras a sense of foreboding. “And R.” 

For some reason, he shot Enjolras a quick look as he said that, and Enjolras felt heat rush to his face; as well as saw it in the reflective bauble he had been attempting unsuccessfully to force past the needles of the branch before him. He tried to search for a neutral reaction to that information. 

“Good,” He finally said, and felt his face heat further when three pairs of eyes focused on him.

Like the flurry that was spiralling down outside, Enjolras’s mind had been reeling and whirling; with an outward silence matched by the muteness falling snow always cast upon the outdoors. 

He’d been watching Grantaire the past few days; had felt his heart twist whenever he came into the hall; whenever he showed up to lessons; whenever his eyes met his, however fleetingly. And he’d realised just how _much_ he looked at Grantaire. And in painful duality he’d realised just how little Grantaire was looking at him. 

Their meeting in the Owlery, and the conversation that had followed which had left them standing so close to one another; silent, had left a tingling sensation in his fingers and a lightness to his limbs. On reflection, in a way that he had later felt would make Jehan proud, the air had seemed to be laced with something other than oxygen; something that had made his heart race and his head dizzy. 

And perhaps it had been rather foolish to think that Grantaire had felt that way too. 

But he was sure there had been some shade of knowing in Grantaire’s expression that day; and there had definitely been some kind of cautiousness, that Enjolras couldn’t remember if he’d seen before. And he’d cursed his own lack of knowing, his own lack of noticing such things. And he was unused to the odd kind of agony he felt now, on Grantaire’s averted gaze. There should have been some kind of satisfaction in their recent lack of rapid and random arguments, but any hope of that sentiment had dwindled and died into a frustration and odd disappointment. 

And the feelings that had been churned up by whatever it was that had caused such a movement in his chest that day were so foreign to him; a language he couldn't understand; as hard to see through as the snowstorm whirling through the grounds now. And that alone would have set him afraid; as if he really were lost in some Artic landscape. 

Except these feelings weren’t cold; they were warm as July sun. 

“As long as you don’t start hurling parsnips at one another,” Courfeyrac was saying.

“I’m not going to hurl parsnips at anyone.” Enjolras said in as calm a voice he could manage, and they all ducked automatically as Peeves went by overhead, cackling in a way that couldn’t quite be construed as festive. 

They abandoned the heaps of tinsel and silver tinted pinecones and berries with the chiming of the Clock Tower that announced the end of break. They left the hall and the twelve Christmas trees that were now laden with gold and silver and red baubles and winding garlands; and softly glowing, roaming lights that Enjolras had discovered on closer inspection at the beginning of the break were fairies Professor Flitwick had summoned. It transpired they weren’t very polite creatures on noticing his staring; and had taken to flit out from the shelter of the branches to tug at his hair whenever he had stood too close throughout the past half hour. 

“Walk slowly,” Courfeyrac commanded behind him on their journey to the dungeons and Potions, after they’d said goodbye to Feuilly; distracting Enjolras from the warm snowstorm of his thoughts as he began to twine stolen gold tinsel about his head like some kind of halo. Its metallic, musty scent brought forwards those images of sparkling trees and warm reds and oranges, and Courfeyrac gave him a wide grin when Enjolras simply sent him an unamused glance, but kept it draped about his hair. 

His heart gave a jolt when they arrived in the smoky classroom and he saw Grantaire was already there; chatting with Joly and Bahorel as he leant against one of the stone columns that spanned upwards to meet the arched, ventilated ceiling. 

He looked over as they came nearer; and his eyes flicked up to take in the halo of tinsel that Enjolras realised was still in his hair. Something like amused infuriation flittered over his expression, before he moved off to put his cauldron on the workspace.

“Are you planning to finish off the tree with yourself, Enjolras?” Joly grinned tapping his ladle against the rim of his cauldron in a tinny tune; waiting for Professor Mordaunt to wave today’s instructions onto the board. 

“He’d make a beautiful angel,” Courfeyrac agreed, a finger coming up to poke playfully on Enjolras’s cheek; and he made the abrupt and finalizing decision to remove the tinsel from his head. Courfeyrac let out a mewl of sorrow. 

Grantaire hadn’t looked up at their playful teasing; curls of hair obscuring much of his face as he bent over his copy of _Advanced Potion Making_ , flicking idly through the pages, and it was only when Professor Mordaunt’s voice carried over the chatter of the rest of the class that he looked up. His eyes caught on Enjolras’s, and in a moment that lopsided grin was on his lips. And Enjolras’s heart gave a feeble stutter like the flames that were burning on the undersides of their pewter cauldrons. 

The Shrinking Solution that they were making that lesson had Enjolras back and forth between the store cupboard and his work station. He’d never been particularly good at keeping track of his own supply of Potions ingredients, and by result his supply of caterpillars, wormwood and Shrivelfig had dwindled into nothingness over the weeks. 

He was kneeling on the cold flagstones, busy rooting at the back of the cupboard’s shelves for the jar of daisy roots when Grantaire draped his arm over the door of the cupboard and peered down at him; chin resting on a curled hand. 

“Got any rat spleens in there?” He asked, his voice unusually quiet, and Enjolras looked up at him, hands frozen around a jar with dark, spongey looking contents he didn’t want to consider. 

Grantaire’s eyes were fixed on him; glinting with something unreadable underneath the tangles of his hair. And Enjolras briefly considered just how unreadable he alone seemed to find Grantaire, and _why_ was he finally looking at him, after days of lowered eyes and silence. 

“Erm.” He said by way of answer, because he was still taking in Grantaire; whose chin was still resting on his hand with a nonchalance that had deserted Enjolras himself. He turned his eyes back to the cupboard in a new quest for rat spleens. 

“Courfeyrac was mentioning you’re staying for Christmas.” Grantaire said after a moment, and he was still speaking in that soft voice; and Enjolras could feel his eyes on him like a wave of heat on the side of his face. He was pulling out jars blindly; the inked, spiking handwriting that announced their contents dark blurs to his eyes.

“I am,” He answered, eyes darting back up to Grantaire; taking in a bit more of him; the ragged sleeve of his jumper that was pulled up over his wrist; particular curling strands of dark hair, before snapping his eyes back to the cupboard and its dusty jars. 

Grantaire made a low noise in the back of his throat; one of mild interest. And Enjolras wondered if he was imagining the fixed way he was still looking at him. 

“That’s an interesting amalgamation of disgusting items.” He finally commented bemusedly, and Enjolras looked over to see his eyes flicking down to the collection of ingredients that were now balanced on his legs. On reflection, Enjolras supposed he could have searched in a slightly more ordered manner. And he no doubt would have; if Grantaire hadn’t been leaning so casually over the cupboard door; his eyes back on Enjolras’s face as if he were committing the way he looked to memory. 

It occurred to Enjolras that he’d been staring at Grantaire a while now; eyes fixed on his, unable to look away. And Grantaire was watching him; something glittering in those grey blue eyes whose shade Enjolras was beginning to feel he knew far too well.

So slightly, that Enjolras wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t found himself trapped looking at Grantaire, he saw his eyebrows pull down under the snarls of his hair, and a slight smile began to curve his lips; amusedly questioning at Enjolras’s outright staring. And perhaps there was a cautiousness traced along that expression; something guarded that turned those grey blue eyes to steel.

And Enjolras began to feel his face heat again; in that obnoxiously frustrating way it seemed only Grantaire was capable of creating. 

If Grantaire noticed, he didn’t comment; his eyes had finally dropped from Enjolras’s, and he was now once more examining the pile of ingredients he had piled into his lap; dark eyelashes hiding whatever was in his eyes now. 

And then he stepped around the cupboard door and leant down, pulling free a jar of rat spleens that had been piled blindly in with its fellow jars and vials. He brought with him a wave of the way he smelt; some musky scent of hair and skin and clothing, and a quick whisper of breath that collided with Enjolras’s ears and lungs with the overpowering thought that Grantaire was _there_ and his heart turned from slow-paced, dumbfounded hesitancy, to erratic movement in his chest. 

“Daisy roots?” Grantaire said, selecting another jar from before them; and Enjolras felt he could hear the words hum in his throat he was so close, and he reached stupidly out to wordlessly accept the jar filled with delicate ochre stems. His fingers skimmed against Grantaire’s; the shock of warm, coarse skin fleeting like lightning. 

“Thanks.” He said weakly; the only word he could summon from his mind that somehow seemed both thundering and as halted and still as the doldrums. 

And then Grantaire was getting to his feet, moving away and his abrupt absence felt like Enjolras had just shed a warm, fleece jacket. 

He knelt there a while in front of that store cupboard; twenty or so disgusting ingredients still heaped about his lap as he breathed in the scent he’d known well for the past six years; the scent of perfumed and acrid smoke. But that tight, constricting feeling in his chest was completely new; one that was utterly confused and frustrating and set him reeling like the snowflakes that continued to rain down about the castle. 

And he was so normally a person of action and quick decisiveness; but here he felt lost and, inexplicitly, terribly alone. 

It was only when Courfeyrac shouted his name that he was pulled towards movement; heading back to his part of the desk where his somewhat abandoned Shrinking Solution was bubbling dejectedly. 

And with the jar of daisy roots he carried that weight that sat about his chest; giddiness devoid from it as it pulled at him and set his mind searching desperately for a way to throw it off.

Grantaire didn’t meet his eye for the rest of the lesson, and as they began to stow their cleared cauldrons away Enjolras considered, not for the first time that afternoon, that, for once, the Christmas holiday was not going to alleviate his worries; not with this new weight that had been draped about his shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANKS SO MUCH FOR YOUR PATIENCEEE <3  
> and thanks so much to all the people reading/kudosing/commenting- you're all lovely!!
> 
> also Marit you are oldd (happy birthday you fabulous person)


	8. hedgehogs aren't as prickly, and christmas is suddenly unseasonably cold

“Will you _please_ stop singing that,” Feuilly said; voice coming muffled owed to the fact that he’d long ago placed his head in his arms; hands spread out against the doodled and scratched surface of his desk.

Courfeyrac abruptly stopped his rendition of _Ring the Hogwarts Bell_ , and broke out a second later into _Silver Bells_ , Elvis impression intact. Feuilly let out a groan that reverberated across the desk and scared the hedgehog before him. It rolled into a tight, prickly ball. 

It was the day before the start of the Christmas holidays; and the castle was strung with impatient anticipation, alongside the wreaths of holly and mistletoe. The trees had been glistening along the house tables for a week or so now; glittering like the icicles along the banisters of the staircases.

Lessons like Charms had wound down; the same fairies that nestled in the trees in the Great Hall having fluttered about over their heads as Professor Flitwick had handed out striped peppermint canes from Honeydukes. 

Transfiguration, on the other hand, remained as focused as ever. 

The hedgehog that was perched on the desk before Courfeyrac blinked at him; not remotely resembling the pin cushion he was supposed to be turning it in to. 

“I’ve named mine Hector.” Grantaire announced through a yawn on Courfeyrac’s other side, his hands stretched high above his head as he slouched backwards in his seat, “Do you think I’ve grown too attached to the subject?”

“Not if you’re a callous Greek god,” Combeferre said, turning in his seat to address Grantaire, an amused look in his eyes, and Courfeyrac’s heart did a somersault. He abruptly stopped singing.

“My hedgehog is a leaf that flares and dies,” Grantaire smirked, looking down at it, and Courfeyrac found himself plodding along behind whatever Grantaire was referencing this time. “Wretched mortal!”

The hedgehog did not appear at all offended at the comment, and continued to chew on the edge of Grantaire’s pencil case. 

Combeferre’s eyes met Courfeyrac’s briefly; a flash of warm brown behind his glasses as he went to turn round, and Courferyac felt a smile stutter onto his lips; uncertain movements that matched the flickering way his heart was beating. 

He’d invited Combeferre to stay over Christmas without a second thought; a thought that had sprung from those years of friendship that couldn’t be expelled away by the new complications that had worked their way into his chest over the past few months. Complications that had spread like ink in water; flowing to every part of his body and entwining themselves in his mind. 

And he’d felt guilty since suggesting it; knowing he’d offered out of friendship, but feeling he’d somehow taken advantage nonetheless to satisfy that feeling that had strung itself across his thoughts and refused to move. 

Behind him, he could hear Marius tapping his feet against the floor of the classroom.

He’d been in a state of constant agitation for the past few days or so, since Cosette had invited him to go skiing with her and her stepfather. Marius had accepted instantly, and then been overcome with the rather intimidating concept of meeting such a person.

Bahorel had been rather more overcome with the concept of skiing. 

“But _why_?” He’d asked in a desperate sort of way when Marius had explained it over dinner. 

Enjolras now moved in his seat directly before Courfeyrac; a slight movement that shifted Courfeyrac’s easily diverted attention. The stretch of weak sunlight filtering in amongst the occasional downfalls of snow from orange and grey clouds had caught at his hair; setting it glaring briefly like sunlight on water.

Courfeyrac felt oddly guilty for going home over the holidays; leaving Enjolras here in the castle. He’d offered in vain for him to come and stay (those feelings half-hoping that he would decline, leaving him disgusted at himself), but he supposed Enjolras was stubbornly independent when he wished to be, and that the two weeks here in the quiet, almost deserted castle, amongst strands of holly and mistletoe, would be something he’d perhaps need after their hectic term. 

He’d spent the last Christmas at Courfeyrac’s house; a tall, pale, blonde figure crammed onto the tiny kitchen table amongst the dark, curling-haired heads of Courfeyrac’s chaotic family. Courfeyrac still fondly thought about the sight of him with a paper hat jammed on his head, reading a cracker’s joke to Courfeyrac’s youngest sister; experiencing a Muggle Christmas for the first time in his life and somehow not seeming at all lost.

And Combeferre had been there too. 

In fact, now that he considered it, so many of his happier memories were packed with images of Enjolras and Combeferre. Those two were laced across his recollections; so many memories of warmth and feeling wanted and feeling understood. And they’d been there in the memories that were cold to think about; when things had felt far from happy and much nearer to useless. They’d been there to gently help him up again; the ones who knew what he was thinking so often before he said it. 

And perhaps that was why the feelings that had layered upon themselves like the snow outside was scaring him so much. The fear that all of those memories would be ruined; tarred and stained if he ever acted on them. It was more than fear, it was pure terror.

Grantaire startled him somewhat from his musings when, without warning, he pressed a soft pin cushion to his cheek.

“Dancing with the fairies, Courf?” He smirked, “Feel how soft Hector is now.”

“Are you seriously pressing a hedgehog against my face?” Courfeyrac asked, half horrified, half impressed that Grantaire had mastered the enchantment so quickly. 

Combeferre flicked a glance over his shoulder; a grin on his face. In front of him an intricately embroidered pin cushion sat on the desk. Courfeyrac abruptly wondered if Combeferre remembered the time he had read _The Iliad_ on a long train ride home in their second year; so engrossed in the pages that had first been spoken so long ago by so many people. So engrossed he hadn’t noticed the game of Exploding Snap Courfeyrac and Enjolras had been involved in until one of the cards had ignited the sleeve of his robe. 

“Hector of the glinting helmet.” Grantaire was reciting, words coming lazily off his tongue as he lounged in the chair next to him; eyes flitting over to Enjolras’s back every now and then as if half hoping he would turn round.

Combeferre caught Courfeyrac’s eye and he gave a grin that seemed to suggest a remembrance of singed robes.

The chiming ring of the bell that ended the lesson and started the break burst the warm bubble of remembrance Courfeyrac had wrapped himself in, and he cast a woeful look down towards his hedgehog, which had stubbornly remained fully hedgehog-like throughout the course of the lesson. He gave it a hesitant poke, and thought that perhaps it was slightly softer than it had been an hour ago.

Despite the snow that covered the grounds; and the freezing air that set breaths steaming, they still spent break times out of doors; in one of the courtyards where the eaves were now layered with thick snow. Joly brought his jar of flames to each break time; and they huddled around it; fresh, freezing air plastering their noses and mouths like cold water.

The walk down towards the Clock Tower Courtyard was a slow one; Grantaire, Musichetta and Feuilly were in playful moods that had them plucking stray strands of mistletoe from the wreaths that wound their way up porticoes and along portraits. A rather stern looking Healer scolded them as Grantaire pulled mistletoe from the corner of her portrait, and fervently wished him to develop the worst case of mumblemumps. 

“It often feels like I’m constantly afflicted with it.” He told her cheerfully, as Courfeyrac hastily whipped the mistletoe from his grip and held it above Grantaire’s curls in order to press a kiss to his cheek.

Much to their chagrin, Joly was not yet in the courtyard when they arrived, making their way over deep, still soft snow towards the sheltered corners of the courtyard. The  
fountain in the centre had frozen; ice glittering and an odd silence permeating the air with the lack of flowing water. 

Courfeyrac had been avoiding Combeferre with the mistletoe he’d been waving around on their journey down noisy, chaotic corridors and spiralling staircases, and now he was overly mindful of it. He sent him a quick glance as they settled at the corner of the courtyard; people around them arriving from their lessons, talking and laughing loudly. 

The cold had already brought out colour high along Combeferre’s cheeks; and he was working his hands together as he chatted animatedly with Enjolras; his bag slipping slowly down his shoulder. He hadn’t seemed to notice any irregularity in Courfeyrac’s behaviour, and it brought Courfeyrac to wondering if he ever _had_ treated Combeferre differently from the rest of his friends before this. _This_ , this strangling and all-pervading wealth of sentiments that were kicked up like a million specks of dust whenever he turned his eyes on Combeferre. 

The arrival of Cosette and Joly dragged him from those musings; and he was glad to be pulled from them and instead focus on the warmth Joly’s enchanted jar of fire began to spread to his fingertips when he hurried over to it.

The rest of the day dragged by, to Courfeyrac’s mind. His impatience stemmed quickly into inattention, which surmounted in his being bucked painfully in the shin by the Porlock they were feeding in Care of Magical Creatures, much to Bahorel and Grantaire’s great amusement. He was still nursing the blossoming bruise a few hours later at dinner; the remnants of desserts still set out along the house tables. 

“You’re not to open these until Christmas day,” Jehan was saying brightly. He was taking the time before they all headed towards their dormitories to hand out the elaborately wrapped presents he had stowed into his bag. Courfeyrac could only assume that there was an Undetectable Extension Charm on the patch-worked and tasselled construction; as thirteen presents were handed out after he’d separated them from hard backed poetry books. 

“This feels awfully like a skull,” Grantaire said, a grin on his face as he weighed his own gift in his hands. There was a flush on his cheeks despite his words, and Courfeyrac wondered if he felt the same rush of warmth he experienced, that often came as a result of reflecting at the kind of people their friends were. 

“You can’t have my gifts until tomorrow,” Courfeyrac announced, reaching across to spear the profiterole that had gone too long abandoned on Joly’s plate. “Which means you’ll all have to say goodbye to me.”

“Bummer.” Bahorel said cheerfully. 

They were among the last to leave the long tables; unhurried behind the tides of students heading towards their dormitories for the evening. The atmosphere was different to normal; with people exchanging goodbyes. The past days had been full of Christmas cards fluttering their way over to various students at breakfast time. Courfeyrac had ensured he’d plied his friends with them; the kind that expelled fake snow when opened in spurting, wheezy coughs.

He was startled by the hand on his arm as they came out into the Entrance Hall; lights flickering and blinking from where they were strung about the high doors to the grounds.

His heart slipped slightly over a beat as he saw Combeferre beside him, regarding him steadily with those soft brown eyes Courfeyrac knew so well; eyes that he had been so constantly calmed by over their years of friendship.

“Can I talk to you a moment?” He asked, and his hand was still on his arm; somehow incredibly warm through the sleeve of Courfeyrac’s robes; striking an over awareness that was sent humming along his skin. 

His reply, much to his chagrin, was of a somewhat gurgled, incoherent nature. 

They had stopped by the stairs; beside the banisters that spanned upwards with fine spans of enchanted icicles clinging to them; sparkling in the candlelight that was strewn about the Entrance Hall. 

Their group was heading their different ways now; and Courfeyrac and Combeferre’s pause seemed to have gone unnoticed amongst the crowd of people heading down different corridors and stairwells. They pushed Courfeyrac closer to Combeferre; close enough that he could take in the way the light glinted slightly in the strands of his hair; and the small, almost imperceptible creases at the edges of his mouth that would deepen when he smiled.

“What’s up?” He asked him, and he was smiling; because it was so hard not to smile when Combeferre was looking at him, despite the roiling feelings in his chest that had him shoving his hands in the pockets of his robes so Combeferre couldn’t see him curling them into tight fists. 

“I-” Combeferre began, but then he broke off. Combeferre, who possessed certainty and conviction in a steady voice that never halted, now paused, as if thinking better of what he’d been about to say. And Courfeyrac’s mind went into overdrive at that; wondering what had made Combeferre hesitate; what he was wanting to say. Words that spoke of having noticed, of aversion and discomfort. 

“I wanted to talk to you about something.” Combeferre was finally saying, and Courfeyrac abruptly wondered how well he was controlling his facial expression; and why he suddenly felt slightly sick. Combeferre looked oddly nervous; but his eyes were fixed on him; dark eyes that were steady and somehow soothing despite the racing panic that was setting his heart beating. 

“What?” He heard himself say quickly; the word coming too fast and coarse to be casual, and the stance of Combeferre’s shoulders suddenly shifted; as if Courfeyrac’s unnecessary interjection had somehow awakened him to where he was and who was standing before him. And the faint lines that had crumpled his forehead instantly vanished when his face rearranged, and he gave a smile. A strange smile; that looked oddly and jarringly strained.

“Nothing.” He then said, and the next words came hastily, “That is, I was going to ask what you got Enjolras for Christmas. I mean, you know, just in case…”

The words trailed off clumsily, and Courfeyrac stood there a brief moment, watching the faint blush that had crept its way onto Combeferre’s cheeks. 

“An absurdly fluffy trapper hat and a lifetime supply of those Peppermint Toads he’s far too fond of,” He responded after a second, the words tripping slowly over themselves, and he was impressed he could bring his mind to remember what he’d bought Enjolras at all, when Combeferre was standing in front of him, that strange smile oddly frozen on his face; hands shoved in the pockets of his robes. And Courfeyrac wondered for one absurd minutes if Combeferre’s hands were balled into fists too. 

“Okay then.” Combeferre eventually said; and he was looking at Courfeyrac; eyes fixed steadily on him, and the smile dropped; fading away and leaving that same hesitation that he’d shown. 

And then they were both studying each other; a metre or so away, their shoulders hunched and hands in their pockets as around them came the shouts and laugher of a school heading towards bed and the prospect of a holiday. And Courfeyrac was left to grapple with the odd weight that had strung itself about his insides; pulling them down like the hawsers of an anchor. A disappointment and a fear that felt like a bitter taste in his mouth. 

“Well,” Combeferre said, and that odd smile was still there; something like cheeriness laced in his voice, something that didn’t sound right, Courfeyrac thought, “I wanted to catch Professor Flitwick quickly. I’ll see you tomorrow on the train?”

“Yeah,” Courfeyrac heard himself reply distantly, and he felt a smile on his face, one as unnatural as the one of Combeferre’s lips. “Yeah, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And then Combeferre had gone; so fast Courfeyrac had little time to register the quick, departing look he shot at him, before he was lost in the crowd; vanishing amongst garlands of holly and mistletoe. 

And Combeferre had gone, but those roiling feelings that were in his chest, and sticking in his throat remained; unheeding of the happiness about him. Like an anchor, he thought again dimly, unnoticing of how he was fixed to the spot by the decorated staircase. An anchor that was pulling him down into gloomy, murky depths; and the glimmers of sunlight on the surface above grew steadily dimmer.

-

The sky outside had darkened as Christmas Day began to draw to its lazy close. Through the mullioned windows of the Gryffindor Common room, Enjolras took in the deep blue of the sky that would soon slip into violet darkness. The armchair he’d settled down into by the fire has seemed to grow softer and more enfolding by the hour; as the five of them that had remained for Christmas had whiled away the afternoon playing chess and eating more than he’d thought entirely possible.

Feuilly was sitting cross legged on the floor; his back to the fire as he contemplated the chess board laid out before him; a frown on his face. The hat he’d won in his cracker at lunch earlier was still balanced on his head; a monstrosity Enjolras was fairly sure Marie Antionette would have yearned for. Opposite him, Bahorel was sniggering, apparently under the impression the pawn he’d just ordered forwards had been a winning move. The chess piece looked up, and began to snigger with him. From a stool by the door, Jehan’s cat Aziola was watching it; eyes unblinking and tail flicking. The cat had not been receptive to a train journey; and in the chaos of leaving had ended up in Bahorel’s arms.

Eponine and Grantaire were a tangle of limbs on the sofa. She had her head laid on his shoulder; arms folded as she looked, glaze-eyed, into the fire. Behind her, a stocky Christmas tree glimmered; multi-coloured lights floating about the branches sleepily. 

Grantaire’s eyes were fixed, unfocused, on some distant spot before him, and Enjolras had found himself often looking at him, without the full memory of casting his eyes from Feuilly and Bahorel’s chess game in the last hour or so.

The scarf Jehan had given Grantaire was wound about his neck, and he was threading the end tresses about the fingers of the hand he had resting on his lap. Enjolras had watched those same fingers sketching earlier that evening; small figures delicately shaded that were now wandering together on the pages of the sketchbook that he could make out from its place on the floor. 

“Stop _laughing._ ” Feuilly muttered, scowling down at the pawn, which clamped a hand over its mouth. Its shoulders continued to shake slightly. 

The tiny wooden lion Feuilly had carved Enjolras by hand was still sat on the arm of the settee; one of the thirteen he'd been working on in secret over the past few weeks. Feuilly, who was so private about how little money he had, and no family to go home to, had rendered Enjolras utterly speechless with a generosity that he considered should no longer surprise him after so many years of friendship. 

“It can’t help that you’re losing.” Bahorel smirked now at Feuilly, leaning back to twist the volume on the radio they’d set up on the low table by the fire.

“ _Enough_ with Celestina Warbeck,” Eponine sighed, shifting in her place, “I want cheesy Muggle Christmas songs.” 

“Yeah,” Grantaire grinned, “I haven’t heard one glum Irish folk song today and that is a _crime_.”

His eyes grazed Enjolras’s, perhaps long enough for him to see the smile Enjolras gave him at that. Meeting Grantaire’s eyes that day felt oddly similar to the fireplace that was popping now and then; sparks shooting upwards from the burning logs. 

“Pass me a Chocolate Frog, ‘Ponine,” Bahorel requested, stretching out a long arm in a futile attempt to grab the packet that was lodged by the foot Eponine had on the carpeted floor.

“How are you not full yet?” She grumbled, kicking the packet towards him with a stray swing.

“My stomach is a bottomless void. I’m a growing child.”

“Speaking of, I’m need to go and find Azelma and Gavroche,” Eponine sighed, setting her other foot on the ground heavily, preparing to get up with obvious reluctance, “I haven’t seen them since dinner.” 

“Check the kitchens.” Grantaire advised her. “I may have shown them how to get in last week.” 

“We know just who to thank when Hogwarts runs out of food, then.” She smirked, finally getting to her feet and tangling her fingers affectionately in Grantaire’s hair momentarily. Enjolras watched the familiar movement, watched the genuine, wide smile Grantaire sent her, and felt his heart give that involuntary lurch; the fire spitting in the grate in perfect synchronization. 

It was warm in that common room, he fully realised as Eponine left; the portrait door swinging shut behind her. The kind of warmth that seeped over his skin; pressing on his nose and mouth in a way that he suddenly thought was not as comforting as he had earlier supposed. Eponine’s absence seemed to somehow enhance Grantaire’s presence, sitting metres away on that old sofa; fingers playing absently with the scarf. 

He was too conscious of it; too conscious of Grantaire; and maybe that was why it suddenly felt so suffocatingly warm in here.

“I’m going for a walk,” He said suddenly, and began to extricate himself from the armchair with difficulty, “Does anyone want to join me?” 

“Outside?” Bahorel exclaimed, tilting his head uncomfortably so he could fix a horrified glance at Enjolras without turning round,

“Around the seventh floor.” Enjolras amended, and, when Bahorel continued to look unreceptive, “Around _half_ of the seventh floor.” 

“I will sleep like a baby if we make it to the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy.” Feuilly mused, touching his hat so it stopped sliding forwards as he cast a look at the board. “Alright then. Let me just crush Bahorel’s king.”

“I’ll see if I can make it to the end of the corridor.” Enjolras said with a slight grin, deliberating about stroking Aziola’s ears on his exit through the portrait hole. He thought better of it when the cat fixed him with one of its steely glares. 

“Cerry Mistmas!” The Fat Lady called after him the minute he emerged from the common room and out onto the deserted corridor; her speech interspersed with a violent hiccup.

It was odd to head down that hallway, its walls and floors swathed in darkness spare the streaks of pale blue moonlight that was streaming in through the high, mullioned windows. The few portraits on the wall were still awake; one of them a young girl tapping her wand determinedly against a music box. Enjolras had often walked the castle corridors at night, on prefect duty with Combeferre, Courfeyrac or Feuilly. And sometimes when he couldn’t sleep; when his mind was too pressed and crammed with things he could not summon away. He was often out of bed, he thought, on reflection. 

But tonight it felt strange; to listen to the muted sounds of Feuilly and Bahorel’s chess game, and the soft ticking of the grandfather clock at the end of the passageway. To listen to a castle so much emptier than it normally was; devoid of the hundreds of students and left only with a handful, along with the serene, quiet ghosts that drifted about the turrets and hallways. 

He reached the end of the corridor, and found himself coming to a stop at an alcove that was framed by the same tall windows as the rest of hallway. 

He settled himself on the low stone ridge that framed the windows; revelling in the new, cool, dark blue hues that felt soothing after the warm, orange brightness of the common room. Mistletoe and holly and been strung overhead; growing and spiralling and shrinking slowly, of their own accord. 

Below him, a view to the grounds came stained with the navy hue of night. Frost had begun to spread itself against the corner of the lead panes; not quite obscuring the gentle blinking of multi-coloured lights in the corridor opposite. He rested his head against the cold pane, his skin hot after the common room fire. 

There was the sudden sound of the portrait swinging open, followed by a brief shout of noise which sounded rather like Bahorel howling, before the portrait shut and silence reclaimed the corridor. 

A figure was walking down the dark corridor towards him; and when they were hit by the soft moonlight he recognised Grantaire. His heart gave an erratic jolt.

Grantaire came to a stop when he reached the alcove where Enjolras had sat, looking at him with a calm, almost blank expression; eyes unreadable. 

“Jehan’s cat abruptly ended the game,” He said after a split second of apparent hesitation, and he leant against the edge of the alcove; his shoulder hitting against the stone column.

“I did think someone sounded upset.” Enjolras replied automatically, eyes overtly aware of Grantaire’s movements; of his hands that were balled in the pockets of his hoodie; some Fair Isle, Christmas monstrosity that Courfeyrac had given him. Overtly aware of the way Grantaire’s eyes were not on his; but flickering between the window and the dark corridor behind him, uneasy.

A silence fell between them after that exchange; and after a moment Grantaire took a step forwards and sank onto the low alcove seat. Enjolras’s mind was hurtling; now ignorant of the cold stone wall that was pressing uncomfortably into his back; his hands curled tightly on his lap. 

Grantaire let out a sigh, and brought a knee up to his chest; foot resting on the seat with a casualness that did not meet the set of his face. He looked, Enjolras reflected suddenly, rather like he felt; torn between some heightened awareness and cautiousness. Except he was wrestling with that feeling that was making the palms of his hands hot and slippery; a feeling that was fervently wishing that Grantaire would maybe move closer.

“This has been nice.” Grantaire said after a moment; when Enjolras had started to feel that the soft, blinking lights out the corner of his eye were more of a spotlight, as he had wracked his brains for something to say, _anything_. Grantaire rested his head against the windowpane as he spoke, his eyes fixed on Enjolras’s face as if testing for his reaction. “Today, I mean. No casualties.”

And Enjolras knew what he meant. All day, he’d tried to watch himself about Grantaire, not for Grantaire’s behaviour; but his own, the fear of saying things before he’d thought them through. The fear of somehow making things between them worse; of upsetting the strange dynamic they’d had between them the past few weeks. A dynamic he’d been somewhat confused and revelling of; where Grantaire gave him quick smiles, and he was conscious of glances that he was sure had never taken place before. And today had been the same; and he’d tried to look at someone other than Grantaire at the table in the Great Hall; had tried not to cast his attention to him every time he had spoken; and tried to pass him dishes of buttered carrots and roast potatoes in a way that could not be construed as trying to start an argument. 

“Courfeyrac told me not to hurl parsnips at you.” He heard himself say suddenly.

Grantaire lifted his head from the window at that, a grin springing onto his face, 

“Yeah?” He asked, eyebrows arching in playful amusement, eyes glittering, and Enjolras felt himself blushing. “Well, he’ll be very pleased with our progress. I distinctly remember laughing rather unkindly when Feuilly’s cracker set your sleeve alight last year.”

“I probably had just said something to you that was out of order.” Enjolras responded. Further along the corridor, from the portrait of the girl, the muted sound of a music box began to play. _Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas_ came quiet and halting to his ears, a tinny rendition that somehow felt soothing. 

“Why is that, I wonder?” Grantaire was saying, and Enjolras felt as if he were in a spotlight again; cast out of his comfort zone in that unique way Grantaire alone could create, as Grantaire studied him; unflinchingly now, a smile playing on his thin, twisting lips. And Enjolras doubted he’d ever have responded to that comment with much humour, and now it kicked up that guilt that had been so often on his mind, and churning his stomach. And he looked at that smile now; that smile so belonging to Grantaire, one that he could never tell was mocking or not.

“You’ve never been the easiest person to get along with, you know.” He said quietly, watching Grantaire carefully for his reaction. 

He laughed at that; a brief exhale of mirth that seemed only partly genuine, and his fingers began to play with the faded knee of his jeans, long fingers stained from the ink he’d been doodling with earlier. 

“Not with me anyway.” Enjolras continued, and he hadn’t meant to sound as petulant as he did. To sound so hurt when he knew his own abrasiveness towards Grantaire had hardly helped anything. And he could not understand the way he could feel so drawn to him, in spite of all the harsh words they’d exchanged for so long and how long had he been holding this realisation within him, pushed down and ready to formulate itself and make itself known.

Grantaire looked up from the movements of his fingers at that, and Enjolras had been about to look away; to ashamedly look at the slow, glittering lights through the window across that snow covered courtyard. But his gaze tangled in Grantaire’s; caught in the unreadable look Grantaire gave him that seemed torn between amusement and some kind of painful frustration. 

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” He said after a moment, setting his knee down again; foot hitting the stone floor. The sound came echoing to that quiet corridor; silent except for their movements, and the hushed sound of that music box. 

“Not really.” Enjolras replied, something like a humourless grin pulling at his lips. 

And Grantaire let out that breathy laugh again, leaning his head back against the frosted glass; his head angled as he kept his eyes on Enjolras. His lips met; drawing in a thin line, and Enjolras craved to know what was in his mind as his own heart thudded so loudly in his chest he was sure his body was humming from it.

Something prodded him lightly on the back of his neck and he jumped slightly before glancing round. 

The mistletoe growing overhead had spanned itself down beside him; delicate coils of green leaves reaching towards him lazily, silently budding and curling through the air. 

He moved as quickly as if he had been burnt, skidding sideways along the alcove seat, away from the accusing plant. And, with sudden, dawning and burning realisation, towards Grantaire. 

His knee knocked against his, the touch quick and brief before he wrenched his leg away, but Grantaire stayed where he was; as if frozen to the spot.

He glanced at him after a drawn out, silent second. Grantaire was already looking at him; watching him through heavily lidded eyes; expression unreadable. His skin looked flushed; face still warm from the common room, and Enjolras felt the heat radiating from his own skin; not to be muted by the cold corridor.

“Mistletoe.” He said abjectly, and Grantaire gave a slow, agreeing nod; a muted noise of confirmation humming in his throat. And he wasn’t looking away, Enjolras realised dully, a part of his mind spinning like the gears of a clock. Grantaire was staring at him; eyes fixed on him, perhaps waiting for Enjolras to look away; challenging him to be the first to do so.

His knee hit against Grantaire’s again, and he looked down, blank bewilderment lighting along his mind as he realised he’d moved forwards again without fully comprehending it. 

“Sorry.” He murmured, the word spoken so quiet it went half trapped in his throat.

“Don’t be _sorry_.” Grantaire spoke the words oddly venomously, and Enjolras looked up to see him half leaning forwards; hands fisted over the sleeves of his jumper; the lines of his knuckles visible through the patterned fabric. “Enjolras.”

No question or comment followed the sound of his name, it simply strung itself about the quiet air around them, and Enjolras didn’t realise how much he liked his name. When Grantaire said it; barely a metre away from him, in a hushed voice that seemed oddly hoarse. 

And Grantaire was still _looking_ at him, unmoving as he leant over the hands still clenched on his legs, watching him; eyes slightly hooded, mouth unsmiling. 

And Enjolras wasn’t conscious of leaning forwards; of bringing himself closer to Grantaire through a gentle, slow movement; clothes rustling softly with it. His knee was still pressed against Grantaire’s; his own fingers twisted so tightly together it hurt dully; a pain he was barely conscious of as he brought himself centimetres from Grantaire. 

His eyes were dark in the dim light; unreadable and still hooded, as if he were waiting for Enjolras; waiting for Enjolras to do something he had not entirely decided on in his mind; an action that was rooted in his mind and felt like it was ablaze along his veins.

Grantaire’s lips parted slightly; a grating, whispered intake of breath sharp in the expanse of air between them. An expanse that was really not very great, Enjolras realised mutedly. 

He was suddenly conscious of looking at Grantaire’s lips; lips that were really very close, and how had they got so close. There was a glint of movement, as Grantaire looked down slightly; eyelashes flickering. His breath suddenly came warm against Enjolras’s flushed skin; and the scent of him washed over his like a warm, enveloping musk. 

And he was tilting his head, feeling his hands shake as his heart thundered; an odd lightness strung about his limbs that had his fingernails dug into his palms; immune and unnoticing and uncaring to the cold. It was all wiped out like snow; those quietly blinking Christmas lights, the soft music box that was still playing, slower and slower as it ticked onwards; the dark corridor with its garlands and wreaths. And it was all reduced to Grantaire before him; silent except for the deep, quiet breaths escaping his parted lips. 

Lips that were warm and soft, Enjolras found one rapid, lurching heartbeat later. 

His lips brushed Grantaire’s; a touch that was barely more than an echo of a kiss; and one that sent frissons of warmth over him that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. And Grantaire let out a muffled gasp of breath; a rush of air that stirred the hair that had curled about Enjolras’s ear, and he leant forwards.

There was a loud bang, followed by an instant rally of shouting and hoarse laughter.

Enjolras wretched himself back from Grantaire; back slamming against the glass window; mind whirring oddly and his lips humming. His heart was hammering somewhere in the region of his throat; tight and drawn as he watched, almost as if in slow motion, Grantaire’s expression flicker and close; settling into a mask of blankness. 

Feuilly and Bahorel were in the corridor, he forced himself to notice, play wrestling with one another, laughing loudly.

“-get fucking _off_ me,” Bahorel was saying; trying to disentangle himself from the arm Feuilly had grappled about his neck,

“There you two are!” Feuilly grinned, “Bahorel’s refusing to accept he was losing,

“I will _hurt_ you-”

“Where’s this tapestry we were all walking to again? I’m tired already.” 

“Well,” Grantaire broke in, and Enjolras hadn’t taken his eyes from him; and had watched Grantaire look determinedly at Feuilly and Bahorel; half his face thrown into shadow, “I’m headed to bed,” There was a brief second, Enjolras thought, before a smile appeared on Grantaire’s lips; expression lost beneath the angle of his head and the curls of his hair. “I’ll send strong hopes that you all make it to the end of the corridor.”

And then he was walking away; walking so fast he was around the corner in seconds. And Enjolras just stood there, mind oddly blank, unable to move.

Feuilly and Bahorel ran off in the opposite direction a moment later; resuming their mock fight, Bahorel shouting indistinctly, and Enjolras was left in that corridor that was reclaimed by silence. The music box had stuttered and died, and he stared vacantly at the spot where Grantaire had hurried out of sight. He felt, perhaps, that his lips were still tingling; a phantom imprint from Grantaire remaining. 

Eventually, his mind span back into life, and when it did, he was left with a cold feeling in his chest; one that matched the frost on the windows and the air of the corridor that had sharpened with its abrupt absence of people. One that heightened the feeling of standing alone in that deserted corridor, the ghost of Grantaire’s lips on his. 

In fact, as he stood there, half hidden in the dark corridor; silent and still, he didn’t think he’d ever felt quite so cold in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM SO SLOW IM SO SORRYYYY
> 
> but a huge thank you to everyone who's still reading and commenting you're all stars <3 
> 
> I'm [here](http://icarus-drunk.tumblr.com/html/) if you want to say hi on tumblr!  
> (or shout at me after this chapter I suppose oops)


	9. the new year moves in, and the castle is cold and quiet

The New Year washed in on black clouds that loomed about the castle towers and pelted rain down upon the grounds. It turned the thick, white snow to grey slush; gentle hissing coming from the well-trodden, now evaporating ice that had made the landscape so festive only weeks ago.

The distant mountains were now indistinguishable through the seemingly constant sheets of rain; all greens and browns and ochre lost to a palette of grey. Any gentle and delicate frost was washed away from the windowpanes long before anyone could be awake to see it; howling winds and rain stuttering at the mullioned glass instead. 

The rest of the school returned in the first week of January, adding warmth to the empty halls now devoid of their decorations. And Feuilly could not be more relieved.

Steaming breaths and freezing rain had been nothing to the bizarre frostiness that had been lacing Enjolras and Grantaire’s interactions in the days following Christmas. 

He didn’t think he was imaging it; he didn’t see how he could be. Not the determined, set way they were avoiding one another’s eyes whenever they came across one another, or the impressive consistency of Enjolras’s days spent in the library. 

“Tell me new information.” Eponine had said with a dismissive shrug when he’d put it to her, and he supposed she was right. Though he had missed the worried frown that had drawn her eyebrows together; concealed under the fringe she cut with magic every few weeks. 

It wasn’t as if the return of the rest of their group solved whatever was passing between Grantaire and Enjolras; the result of whatever words they had exchanged, unnoticed by Feuilly, that now had them avoiding one another, and had Grantaire’s laughter sounding too forced, and his smiles too strained. But it did ease it somehow. And Feuilly felt guilty for it, but he was relieved for Courfeyrac and Combeferre to provide an ear for Enjolras; in a way that the rest of them never really could. He felt ashamed of himself for not pursuing the source of Grantaire’s melancholy; for not trying to alleviate it through any other method than taking his mind off it. But perhaps that was the best way to help Grantaire. Feuilly thought he sometimes saw relief in his features when he and Bahorel deliberately flooded a conversation with inane remarks. The world certainly served up enough severity, he supposed. 

It was break time on another cold Wednesday; rain hammering down on the arched roof above their heads; thrumming at the window panes, and Feuilly was bewitching the origami he and Cosette had been folding throughout Charms earlier. The spell was one he’d invented; one that sent delicate cranes fluttering over towards Joly, who was beaming in delight.

“Can you make a manticore?” Bahorel asked, and Feuilly studiously ignored him. 

That they’d just had Charms was slightly unfortunate. As a subject that most of them took, it had painted Enjolras’s hasty departure when the bell had rung as rather obvious. Perhaps Grantaire’s smiles seemed more strained, Feuilly thought. He was ashamed to not really know. 

He supposed that strains appeared on friendships now and then; words could grow careless or hurtful, and situations and people changed. But then again, he wasn’t entirely sure whether Enjolras and Grantaire _were_ friends. They were there; constant as members of the only family Feuilly had ever known; the small sphere of people he held indescribable love for. And he supposed he knew enough about families to know they could be dysfunctional at best; but the thought had crossed his mind; the horrible contemplation that Grantaire or Enjolras may distance themselves; side-line themselves irrevocably from this close knit circle, if their seeming dislike towards one another heated past simmering.

And that, he thought now, feeling the floor shake from Grantaire’s unstill, tapping feet, may have finally come about in spite of his own fervent hoping and optimism.

He waved his wand, and caused Cosette’s parchment crane to flutter over towards Grantaire. He broke off his conversation with a still very suntanned Marius to catch it on a long, ink-stained finger.

“Tell me honestly,” He smirked, “How ready am I to be the next Disney princess?”

The wind gave a particularly strong howl outside; moaning as it rattled the latch on the window, and Feuilly shuddered.

The castle seemed emptier without the wreaths and bows that had strung it a month ago, and Feuilly felt himself missing the atmosphere that had also strung itself to the weeks before Christmas; when the holidays had cast muted excitement and happiness throughout the castle; intertwined in the boughs and branches of the glimmering trees. 

Now, in the gloomy, rainy, early months of the year, that atmosphere was quite gone; replaced by a cold, damp feeling that matched the insides of his shoes after hours spent out of doors for Care of Magical Creatures.

Maybe that was the main reason Enjolras and Grantaire’s silent disagreement seemed gloomier. But somehow, he didn’t think so.

Bahorel distracted his glum musings by fixing a hand about the scarf Feuilly had draped about his neck, and tugged it, pulling Feuilly forwards into what transpired to be a rather fond headlock. 

Bahorel had always held a sharp perception when it came to him, from the moment they’d met. He couldn’t pin down as to why; maybe it purely guesswork, or he’d learnt the slump of his shoulders or the flicker of expression Feuilly himself was unaware of omitting. Perhaps Bahorel had taught himself to notice it; not from the pitying guilt Feuilly saw in some others when he labelled himself orphan, but from the genuine warmth and kindness that Bahorel was made up of, amongst brawn and brashness. 

When the bell rang, Feuilly was immeasurably glad of the decision to not study History of Magic when it was put to him at the end of the last summer term; when Hogwarts had been bathed in warm sunlight and the noise of new green leaves rustling in the Forbidden Forest. But perhaps he may have then been a buffer now, he thought, as he watched Grantaire get to his feet, an unreadable expression on his face at the prospect of spending an hour in the same room as Enjolras. 

“Do you fancy joining me on my prefect rounds at lunch, R?” He asked Grantaire as they headed out into the crowded corridor, knocking a fist against his arm, “We can go and drop stink pellets off the Astronomy tower again?” 

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure than annihilating the trust that you were given.” He said, something like a smirk lighting his face. “Until then.”

He gave one of Feuilly’s curls a quick, gentle tug and strode off along the cold corridor, vanishing into the crowd milling towards lessons.

“That wasn’t the direction of the History of Magic classroom, was it?” Bahorel said from next to him after a brief second. 

Feuilly’s sigh was cut a little short as Courfeyrac leapt past him, and started to sprint through the crowds, Jehan at his heels, both laughing wildly. One of the enchanted paper cranes was following them; wings flapping enthusiastically. 

“I despair over everyone.” Bahorel muttered, and Feuilly couldn’t help agreeing entirely.

-

The Northern towers of the castle had always been the quietest; unused classrooms with stacked desks and corridors that lay silent except for gently murmuring portraits and the odd, bored-looking ghost.

Grantaire was overly conscious of the soles of his feet striking flagstone; his bringing living, breathing noise to corridors that saw so little of it. 

He’d hoped the silence would be something like a balm; something that would drape itself about him like soft, warm fabric, and allow him to breathe; allow that iron weight that had seemingly turned his throat and lungs and heart to lead to be relieved, just for an hour or so.

But as he should have realised, this silence that swathed these empty corridors felt heavy too; a heaviness that let his mind still work, and that leaden weight did nothing to lessen itself. 

There was no sunlight today; only cold wind that beat at the glass of the windows interspersed amongst pillars and sent shivers along his skin. 

A ghost of a long haired woman materialised from the opposite wall; fingers playing with the hem of her taffeta dress. She gave Grantaire a stern look before she floated through the opposite wall, as if she knew he was currently supposed to be several floors below; sitting in a stuffy classroom, his elbow knocking against Enjolras’s. He wondered how she could condemn him to such a thing.

He shoved open the door that led out onto the bridge to the next tower; and was met with the howl of rain and wind that plastered his face and smothered his nose and lips. It bit at his exposed skin, and he paused a moment, oddly revelling of that sharp, bitter, soaking air.

The rain started to drip down his neck and began to ruin the sentiment. 

He finally settled just inside the next corridor; on a window seat overlooking the lake that was rippling as if it were a wild sea; rain pounding on its surface. He was sat at a windowed alcove, one that sent him reeling back to Christmas Day, and caused that leaden feeling in his stomach to be laced with something like nausea.

He knew he couldn’t avoid Enjolras forever; couldn’t walk away from History of Magic twice a week as if he’d forgotten why he felt the need to. He supposed Enjolras had been avoiding him too. And he couldn’t decide if that made things worse. 

What _did_ make things worse was the sleepless nights; lying awake as the ceiling above him darkened and lightened and day came once more; and night ebbed away like a wave that had left him stranded on the dry shore. Nights when he was certain of feeling Enjolras’s lips on his; a memory pressed like a flower between the pages of a book that would slip out no matter how hard he tried to prevent it. 

He supposed he was not really trying that hard. 

His hands felt hot again, and he pressed a palm to the cold window; rain making the thin glass thrum. 

A year ago, even two _weeks_ ago, kissing Enjolras (that nauseous, leaden feeling sunk in again at the prospect) was something far away his mind could not dwell on; some impossible, laughably unattainable concept he didn’t dwell on for the sake of his own sanity.

That this had changed; had whirled its way into reality like the violent snowstorms of December was so unexplainable to him; unbearably and painfully so. And whenever he relived the picture; conjured it up in his head (which he was disastrously prone to doing lately) he’d also see Enjolras pulling away from him as if he’d been burned; as if he’d made a terrible mistake.

And that was the main reason for that weighted anchor that had strung itself about him.

Something twitched in the pocket of his robes; a not entirely foreign concept at Hogwarts; and after cautiously reaching a hand into the material, he freed one of the paper cranes Feuilly had been enchanting at break. It gave a shake; its paper body rustling, and took off out along the corridor, bobbing up and down. He watched it go; head resting against the cold pane. 

The sky above the mountains outside was already growing dim; January having decided that day had been light long enough. Torches would soon flicker in their brackets in classrooms and corridors; that soft, yellow orange glow reminding him of quite another source of brightness; lighting on blonde curls and making them seem ablaze too. 

He dug his nails into the palm of his free hand, feeling the biting pain, and then he laughed at himself. The exhalation of bitter humour came grating and forced in that silent hallway.

He stayed there until the bell rang; reverberating about the castle, and then he forced his feet to move; through the silent corridor and down flights of stairs; through shortcuts that he’d learnt lay behind heavy, woven tapestries, and towards the Great Hall where the house tables were weighted down with pies and Pumpkin Juice.

Much to his relief, Feuilly was already there, constructing a sausage sandwich to take on his rounds of the castle. Grantaire reached the Gryffindor table at the same moment as Courfeyrac and Bossuet, who, Grantaire was half-surprised to see, was flecked with copious amounts of what appeared to be blue ink. 

“Ink pellets.” Courfeyrac supplied at Grantaire’s questioning glance, holding back something like a snigger, “He didn’t duck in time. But it’s okay, they’re temporary.” He broke off, and sent Bossuet a slightly concerned look, “At least, I _think_ they are.”

“I’ll go for dance in the rain.” Bossuet grinned, seating himself at the table, and touching his face experimentally. 

“Ready to go, R?” Feuilly asked, not looking up from his rather extravagant sausage creation as he pressed the topmost layer of bread down. The squelch of ketchup accompanied the process. “I’m thinking a quick run around the first floor and then up to the Astronomy Tower?”

“Sounds like a dream.” Grantaire responded. “Got any of those ink pellets left, Courf?” 

The Entrance Hall was filled with the normal lunchtime crowd of students heading towards the house tables, and Feuilly navigated the way with his sausage sandwich held aloft. The floor was slippery from wet feet tramping in from the cold, rain-soaked grounds, and Grantaire cautiously scanned the ceiling for Peeves, who could usually be relied upon to use the wet weather as an excuse to hurl water balloons down from the rafters.

It was on the first floor, moving past the crush of students headed from lessons, that Grantaire realised the direction they were headed, and before that realisation could fully settle about him, he’d caught sight of the fair hair eclipsing those in front owed to the owner’s height.

“Enjolras!” Feuilly said, a hand lunging into the crowd, and, a second later, pulling Enjolras into sight as easily as Muggle magicians could apparently conjure rabbits. Enjolras’s eyes flicked from Feuilly to Grantaire, and Grantaire felt his own expression swoop into something between frozen and dismay. 

“The sausages are good today, Enjolras.” Feuilly said, in a mellow kind of way, apparently entirely unaware that Grantaire was drowning; standing in some deep pit as water sluiced down in torrents from above. There was an odd rushing in his ears, his heart hammering. “We’re just off to be questionably good prefects-”

“Good.” Enjolras said in a loud, slightly jarring tone, and Grantaire realised bleakly that Enjolras had not taken his eyes from him. “Can I speak to you for a moment, Grantaire?”

The crowd didn’t afford much in the way of making the situation flow smoother, as Enjolras parted a path to get to the door of a classroom that was stood ajar. Grantaire watched him blankly, before being pierced by grey blue eyes, and with a strangled snort of bleak humour, left Feuilly by the banisters. 

Enjolras pushed open the door when Grantaire finally disentangled himself from the crowd, gesturing for Grantaire to go through first. And Grantaire took a brief moment to despair that Enjolras was _holding the door open for him,_ before he squared his shoulders and marched through it, wondering if Pyrrhus had ever felt his own hollow victories quite so strongly as this. 

The small classroom was empty; desks half veiled in the gloomy light that the arching windows along the opposite wall could do little to alleviate as the rain lashed down outside. The blackboard taking up the corner of the room was creaking in the draft; chalk writing still spiralling itself lazily and silently to an audience-less room. 

Enjolras shifted in the corner of his vision, and Grantaire couldn’t look at him, he realised, he couldn’t. Why had he walked in here; confronted himself with this all-too-present Enjolras he had been avoiding for so long; who he could hear breathing, his robes whispering as he moved.

And then his voice, soft and husky with lowness and hesitancy. 

“I think…I mean, well, I think we’ve been avoiding one another.”

Grantaire gave a low, somewhat strangled exhalation of humour at that, and cast his eyes about the room as his feet took him away from the door, as if the metre or so distance could cast up a barrier from Enjolras, some half-hearted form of self-preservation. 

Someone had left a glove on the nearest desk; Grantaire picked it up with determined fingers, fingers that were betraying him with an indistinct trembling. He felt like a toy wound up too close; that heavy weight making itself known once again.

“I’m sorry.” Enjolras said, and his voice was bolder now; biting at the words, “I don’t want this to happen, Grantaire.”

“What’s ‘this’?” Grantaire asked, setting the glove down again, stepping towards the centre of the classroom where the gloomy light managed to brighten somewhat.

“ _This_ ,” Enjolras said again, as if he could illustrate the incomprehensible situation by forceful repetition of the word, “This awkwardness, and you not being in lessons…” He trailed off, 

“And you hiding in the library?” Grantaire questioned, pulling a smile onto his face and sending it somewhere over Enjolras’s shoulder.

Enjolras might have nodded at that hesitantly, but Grantaire turned to face the blackboard again; looking unseeingly at the incantations that were spiralled in broken chalk lines across its dark surface.

“I’m sorry.” Enjolras said again,

“For what?” Grantaire asked, and the words had difficulty being spoken; trying to lodge themselves somewhere in his throat,

“For kissing you.” And Grantaire couldn’t help looking at him then. He looked at him, and that image of Enjolras with mistletoe shrouded about his head like a spiralling, delicate halo; drawing closer in the twilight, was kicked up in his mind like stray dust on a sudden wind; or a rush of starlings spiralling into a darkening sky. 

“Right.” Grantaire said blankly, “You’re sorry.”

“I shouldn’t have done it.” Enjolras was watching him closely, he realised dully. There was something in his expression that seemed cautious, as if he were worried of how his words would settle on Grantaire, as if caution was needed when he spoke to him. And it was probably that that made Grantaire feel as if bile was rising in his throat, a hot surge of frustration rushing over him that made his toes curl and his face grow warm. 

“Right,” He said again, and his voice sounded hollow now, “It was a mistake.” 

“You think so?” Enjolras said quickly, “I mean-” A rush of colour suddenly lit across his cheeks, and Grantaire felt his heart lurch slightly, “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. That was the last thing I wanted.” 

It had been a mistake, Grantaire relived that look in Enjolras’s eyes again as he had drawn away, wrenched himself away from him. He suddenly wanted to be anywhere but here, thousands of miles away from Enjolras; as if that would somehow help him find a way out of the feelings that were tangled in his chest. 

“Maybe I just didn’t want to go to History of Magic this week.” Grantaire grinned weakly, and his stomach was still lurching as if he were at sea, which, he realised, was the exact metaphor for how talking to Enjolras often felt. 

The huff Enjolras emitted at that seemed to have forced its way out of him against his wishes, and that reeling feeling heightened as Grantaire took in the uncertain, awkward set of Enjolras’s shoulders; the hesitancy laced about his posture instilling a nervousness into Grantaire that he couldn’t fully explain. 

“You know you don’t have to sit next to me in that lesson.” Enjolras said, “Don’t feel you have to. After this,” He gestured hopelessly, and Grantaire saw a re-emergence of that incomprehensible ‘this’ again, “I understand.”

Grantaire had never thought himself a coward before, but now he stood there in that silent classroom, holding Enjorlas’s gaze like it was the weight of the celestial spheres that had been thrown about the shoulders of Atlas. And he couldn’t ask him, couldn’t form the words that were rattling about his mind; of _why_ Enjolras had done it, words he felt he should shout. But it wasn’t anger that was thudding through his bloodstream. It was some horrible, empty kind of understanding; a kind of disappointment he hated himself for feeling because _why_ would it ever have been any different. 

Enjolras was still watching him, and he was biting his lips now; that peculiar indecision still strung about his stance, and Grantaire felt at odds; as if they were playing a game he didn’t quite understand, or performing a script he hadn’t quite learned. 

And he was suddenly keeled by the sickening feeling of what Enjolras must think of him; those brief seconds of their lips meeting that had lit fireworks in his mind, that he looked back on to set a wildfire raging through him. And Enjolras now stood there apologizing for it, as if it had been some regrettable event, something he wanted to forget. 

He suddenly felt exhausted; he couldn’t quite place the moment of leaning backwards but the desk came up to meet him regardless. 

There was a loud pop from outside, followed by a distinct cackle and a fair deal of loud shouts and exclamations. In short, it sounded exactly like Peeves lobbing a water balloon into the milling crowd.

“I should-” Enjolras said haltingly, breaking off to gesture in the direction of the door,

“Yeah,” Grantaire said, and he wasn’t entirely sure where the cheery tone of his voice was sounding from, but it echoed falsely about the classroom, “Yeah, go deduct house points from poltergeists.” 

Enjolras’s eyes were still on him; flickering briefly to the door and back; and Grantaire dropped his gaze, down to his own scuffed shoes that were peeking out the bottom of his robes, watching the faded leather rise as his toes curled inside them.

He heard the tread of footsteps and the opening of a door; the rise of noise that the heavy wood had muffled; breaking like a wave briefly into the room before fading, and then Enjolras had gone. 

The sigh he emitted seemed to be drawn from corners of his body he hadn’t realised were aching with fatigue. Enjolras’s face seemed burned on the backs of his eyes like a bright light he’d looked upon too long, and that empty, sinking feeling that was uncomfortably like some hollow disappointment weighted his chest. 

He forced himself to walk towards the door moments later; out towards the corridor where Feuilly was still waiting. He left the classroom as quiet as it had been before that hollow, hesitant conversation. 

The chalk continued to work over the board long after he’d shut the door; and silent incantations and spells scrawled and spiralled themselves forwards, unseen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh maaaaan i'm so sorry there was such an abysmally long wait between updates here...I really have no excuse except for uni being super distracting ahaa  
> anyway I HOPE YOURE ALL ENJOYING YOUR WELL EARNED HOLIDAYS??!!!  
> I am [here](http://icarus-drunk.tumblr.com/) if you wish to say hello (that would be very fabulous)


	10. january moves onwards, and enjolras spends a lot of it perplexed

“Can I tell you something, Enjolras?” Courfeyrac said one Friday lunchtime in late January. 

The two of them were walking up and down the viaduct as part of their prefect duty for the hour; from the courtyard ending in the great double doors, to the tower at the other end. The day was windy; catching in the brickwork and hammering at windows up in the towers above them. The clouds scudded ragged across a hesitant blue sky; patches of sunlight dipping towards the hills around them; lighting the russet gold of bracken faded over winter; shallow lochs shining silver in the sun. 

“What?” Enjolras asked, pulling down the neck of his scarf to make himself heard. The month had pulled down bitter winds upon the castle; chilling him with a permanency he had forgotten possible when the sun had held warmth to it. Perhaps it was the cold green of the common room; or the high ceilinged corridors, but he hadn’t felt warm since December. 

But here was also the cold melancholy that had settled about him over the past month; one that had started from the warmth of kissing Grantaire. 

Grantaire, who had looked at him with that guarded expressionlessness in his eyes as he had informed Enjolras of the mistake that had been Enjolras’s lips on his.

Courfeyrac had drawn to a halt; nearly at the centre of the viaduct. He leant forwards; putting up his hands and hitting his palms against the stone barrier. Below them, the canyon gaped grey and dark green from damp moss. He seemed to be collecting his thoughts; stringing out words in his head before voicing them, in a way that was hardly characteristic. 

“Combeferre stayed at mine over Christmas,” He began, and Enjolras looked away from the lake winking stray glints of light far below him, and over at Courfeyrac. He was flushed; despite the cold air that was tugging at his coppery curls, his hands moving, twitching on the stone. He always had that restlessness on him; was always strung with impatience and barely contained agitation. But there was something else to it now.

“I know,” Enjolras said, although he had the vague feeling that Courfeyrac was not listening for the moment; his concentration lost in whatever was making his fingers work against the stone wall of the viaduct. 

“Yeah,” He said distractedly, “Well, it was nice, I mean…it was Boxing Day and we took the dog for a walk,” He paused, and looked over at Enjolras. Enjolras could only assume his own bewildered expression registered as encouragement, because Courfeyrac blushed still further and in one ragged and hurried breath, let words spill from his mouth,

“And I kissed him.”

A brief moment of shock washed over him like a cold wave, and then, unbidden, the memory of Grantaire; noses skimming as his lips brushed his; his breathing soft and quick in the almost non-existent space between them. 

“Pardon?” He blurted, turning so he was fully facing Courfeyrac, who was standing stiffly as if carved out of metal; as if bracing himself for whatever he thought Enjolras might do. 

“I kissed him.” He said again, loudly, and Enjolras didn’t take much note of the stares they were given, his mind trying to piece this information together. 

“How was it?” He finally heard himself say. And out of all the questions that his mind had blossomed like the leaves that would spout in a few months’ time, that question had probably not been the one he considered the most vital to be answered. 

Courfeyrac studied him a moment, something between bewilderment and hesitation on his face. And then he burst into peals of laughter. 

“I don’t know why I asked you that.” Enjolras informed the back of Courfeyrac’s head, given that he was bent over in laughter nearing hysterical. 

“‘How was it’?” Courfeyrac repeated after a minute or so, straightening up and holding a stitch that had apparently blossomed at his side, “That was not what I was expecting you to say.” 

“I meant to ask how that came about.” Enjolras continued determinedly, and he was racking his brains; casting his mind back futilely for a clue as to how long this had been coming, if it had been coming at all.

Courfeyrac sobered at the comment, and after a moment swung himself up to perch on the wall that spanned the edges of the viaduct. It brought him to level height with Enjolras; his knee knocking briefly against Enjolras’s side as he steadied himself.

“I don’t really know,” He said after a time, a hand moving to play absently with the stone again; fingers tracing the masonry. “I mean, I think I realised over summer. If there was a single moment? I think it might have been there for a while, if that makes any sense. Before I knew what it was.” 

And Enjolras watched some faraway look steal itself over Courfeyrac’s brown eyes, and with a plunging feeling he might have ascribed to diving far below the water, knew exactly what he meant. 

“What about Combeferre?” He asked after a time, when he’d begun to grow conscious of the cold that was stinging at his ears and the tip of his nose. 

Courfeyrac blushed again at the question.

“We talked a bit afterwards,” He responded slowly, kicking his heels against the wall; one hand still working over the cold stone. His fingers had turned pink. “But then, well, he was going home.” He paused and fixed Enjolras with a glance that was torn between an unusual, almost nervousness, and a fevered glow in his eyes that was something like wonder, “He said he likes me, that he’s liked me a while. Of course, he put it far more eloquently and loquaciously than that.” 

He trailed off, perhaps caught up in some image of Combeferre, and Enjolras wondered what kind of awful friend he was, that he had never so much as noticed as second glance between the two of them, that he'd gone weeks without noticing any change. 

“What are you thinking?”

Courfeyrac’s expression was nervous once more when Enjolras looked back at him, teeth biting the edge of his lip. It was a habit he’d picked up over summer; one Combeferre had doggedly reminded him against doing. 

“How did I not notice?” He finally said, in a voice that came out slightly weaker than he had hoped. And then he shook himself, as if he could throw that selfishness aside and string it on the cold wind that was pulling at his hair and at his robes.

“That’s so great.” He said before Courfeyrac could respond, and then he said it again, as the words sparked a warm disbelief that might lessen into a simpler warmth the more he thought of it, “Really, that’s _beyond_ great.” 

Courfeyrac’s answering smile was more than worth those few words, and Enjolras felt himself smile back at him; in that infectious way that only Courfeyrac could summon.

\- 

The first Quidditch match of the new term took place on the last Saturday of January; when the skies above the pitch were a washed out, cold grey that seemed to threaten fresh bouts of snow in a far less heartening way this side of Christmas. The grounds had still been soaked from the recent rains; the grass marshy underfoot. And Grantaire walked back from the changing rooms; broom slung across one shoulder, with his yellow robes stained with mud and rather unpleasantly smelling not entirely dissimilar to that of damp dog.

The Snitch he’d caught twenty or so minutes ago had been following him since the match had ended; as he’d slouched in the changing rooms, returning celebratory claps on the back and loud jokes as the rest of the team had changed from their Quidditch robes and headed back towards the common room for the celebratory party. 

He’d listened as the stands had emptied; the rest of the school heading back to the castle. And he’d hoped his friends had not waited; as he’d watched the chalk outlines of the Slytherin and Hufflepuff players spider their way over the blackboard in the corner of the room. 

He was tired today; in that way he had been for a long while. He wasn’t sure if it was the adrenaline of flying that was still in his veins like some muted fire from strong alcohol, but that exhaustion felt stronger now, and made his limbs oddly heavy, as the Snitch he’d caught fluttered about his head in that musty changing room; wings buzzing and light. 

Now he was walking the long way back up towards the castle; past the Northern towers and around to the lake, and up the steep hill that spanned, jagged, away from the water below it. The sun had been hidden behind those low, grey-white clouds all day, but a thin band of hesitant orange was staining the sky to the west; pine trees in the distance softened to a pale blue grey in the oncoming dusk. The Snitch had disappeared; which was not a conversation he was looking forward to having with the Hufflepuff team captain. 

He slipped into the shadow of the castle through the tall, spanning archway that led to one of the courtyards surrounded by the high walls. Cloisters spanned the courtyard; tall, glassless windows entwined with ivy and moss. A tree was set in the centre; sparse, empty branches twisting towards the grey slate roof.

He had been half debating taking the broom from his shoulder and clambering onto it; kicking off from the ground and letting the courtyard sink away along with castle walls and towers. The resulting breeze that would grip at his hair and snatch at his breathing was always oddly refreshing. 

He rounded a corner to head into the cloisters and froze.

Enjolras was standing in the cold shade of the spanning colonnades, a stack of brightly coloured posters in one arm, and flicking his wand with his spare hand, so that a red and black poster affixed itself to the alcove’s stone wall. Dusk had seemingly swept prematurely across the courtyard; swathing Enjolras in a muted purple light that seemed to deceive just how bright those strands of fair hair could be. 

Grantaire stood frozen, brain moving thickly as if through the treacle puddings that would no doubt be on the house tables soon. His first thought was to step away, to turn round and let himself go unnoticed; to slip away with the wordlessness he’d been achieving in their hours in the History of Magic classroom together. He couldn’t have said exactly who had set that precedent, only that they were both following it devoutly. 

But then Enjolras looked over, and Grantaire was still stood there; as if his feet had grown roots like the tree metres away, digging down under the paving and keeping him there as Enjolras’s eyes locked on his. 

There was a horrible moment where the two of them remained unmoving, looking at one another across the courtyard. Grantaire was horribly aware of the mud that had worked its way under his robes and was drying on his arms and the back of his neck. 

And then Enjolras started towards him, and maybe his jaw was angled as if marching into battle, and Grantaire felt he recognised that cold fire that lit his eyes from when he was riled and angry and _fucking glowing_. It had never been used on Grantaire before. He wasn’t conscious of moving his broom down to the ground like a walking stick, but his knees were now rather grateful for the apparent forward thinking. 

And then Enjolras stood a metre away from him, hands in fists at his sides and his stance laced with confrontation. Not that Grantaire could quite look away from that blazing intensity in his eyes. His palms were hot and some hideous weakness had flooded down his legs.

Then in a tone that seemed laced with accusation, Enjolras said,

“Well done on the Quidditch match.”

Grantaire blinked. 

“Pardon?” 

He’d been braced for another argument; another thing that would mean that curdling feeling of sickening dread and longing would curl in his stomach before History of Magic, before meals; whenever Enjolras’s gaze so much as _skimmed_ his own.

He had _not_ been expecting a compliment. 

Maybe Enjolras noticed Grantaire’s blank expression, or the hesitancy in his posture. He gave a strangled sigh, eyes flicking down from Grantaire’s; fair eyelashes on his cheeks as he considered some point on the paving stones. 

“I’m sorry,” He said after a second, and Grantaire was completely lost, staring at Enjolras and feeling like he’d been thrown into a labyrinth he had no way of navigating. His face felt oddly frozen, still half in flight mode. 

Enjolras’s chest rose as he sighed again, the whisper of breath hardly audible as the tree rustled in the cold wind; swirling around that old courtyard; pulling at the posters still in Enjolras’s hands.

“World changing posters?” Grantiare questioned haltingly, pulling something like a smile onto his face as he waved the hand still clutched around the broomstick towards the stacks of glossy paper. His knuckles were white, he noted absently. 

“I…yes.” If Enjolras had been about to rise to the comment, he evidently changed his mind last moment. His eyes met Grantaire’s again, and that urge to run dribbled away like rain between paving stones. 

“Fancy a hand?” He said, looking into Enjolras’s eyes; taking in that cautious expression set in steely blue between long eyelashes. 

“Pardon?” Enjolras asked, and Grantaire would have thought that maybe he was somehow pulling his leg, if he didn’t look so genuinely bewildered. 

“Well,” Grantaire responded, and the smile felt more sincere this time, warm on his lips, “I’m in current possession of a broomstick. I figure you want to distribute those before midnight?” 

“I…” Enjolras trailed off, and Grantaire might have been offended at the hesitancy that his offer was being met with, if he hadn’t had some kind of painful amusement thrumming through his veins and _why_ was he still here; standing before Enjolras and not only talking to him but holding out his broom before them as if it were some kind of white flag. They both looked at it. It was a Cleansweep; an old model Grantaire had bought at thirteen; glossy from care, and indented from hands. 

And perhaps he should step back, reduce the distance that had ostensibly slipped away, and make some aggravating comment that would allow him to leave. But he couldn’t quite seem to do any of those things; and the look in Enjolras’s eyes as he seemingly considered Grantaire wasn’t one that he had the strength to break. If it was anything about strength at all.

“Ok.” Enjolras was saying, and it took Grantaire a moment to catch up with what he was consenting to, but then his eyes flickered towards the broomstick and his slow working mind bravely clunked into realisation.

“Oh.” He said blankly, and then, as Enjolras started to look hesitant, tried to inconspicuously shake himself. “Right. Well, do you want to-”

He trailed off as he swung a leg over the broom, head turned to look at Enjolras, but not quite summoning the ability to and why was this suddenly so hard, with his legs strung out at awkward angles and his hands lost as they rested clumsily on his lap.

And then Enjolras clambered onto the broom behind him, one hand still clasping those posters,

“Can I-?” He said in a quiet voice, breath tickling hair behind Grantaire’s right ear, and Grantaire distantly felt himself nod, and Enjolras’s hand was at his waist; warm and almost burning at his side.

And Grantaire had not thought this through properly at _all_. 

He kicked off from the ground with an abruptness that came from some kind of pained, humoured resignation, foot striking hard against the floor. 

Enjolras gave a soft ‘harrumph’ that drew warm breath against his skin, and his grip on Grantaire tightened at the sudden, abrupt music. The hand still holding the posters hit against Grantaire’s chest; a fist pressing hard against him. The posters snapped in the cold wind that grew with the altitude; the courtyard shrinking beneath them, the lone tree there waving its branches absently from below. 

That adrenaline was rushing in his veins again; the one that came when the earth left his feet and the cold bitter air far from the ground worked its way into his lungs and lifted at his robes. It was something like elation. And now, with Enjolras holding him so tightly it was almost painful, Grantaire’s hands were shaking.

“Did it occur to you to simply use magic for these posters?” He called back to Enjolras as he angled the Cleansweep higher, and the Divination Tower spanned upwards with them; the Bell Towers rising ahead; tall roofs steepled towards the darkening sky. 

“It felt lazy.” Was Enjolras’s clipped response, and Grantaire almost heard the twist of his lips, and maybe if people had a third of Enjolras’s energy, the world would be a better place.

The lake glinted as Grantaire touched the Cleansweep lightly and it spanned passed the two tall Bell Towers, the greenhouses far below them. And from nowhere, Enjolras’s hand pressed against his ribs.

“Can we pause here?”

He was pointing at a gently slanted roof, angling from a row of windows on a fourth floor corridor. Grantaire attempted to turn round and catch his expression, and the broom jolted alarmingly. 

In the end, he supposed Enjolras was serious, and he set them down on that sloping roof with a clumsiness that made him wince, one that didn’t normally belong to him when he was on a broomstick.

The warm press of Enjolras’s hand disappeared, and Grantaire tried to ignore the feeling curdling in his stomach that was far too like disappointment. 

“I’ve never done anything like this before,” Enjolras was saying, almost to himself, and Grantaire looked over at him. He was standing as if ready to fall; two metres from the edge of the leaden guttering, peering down at the height between them and the greenhouses below. The top spans of a tree rustled near Grantaire’s muddy feet.

“Forgive me if I’m wrong,” He said after a moment, a moment of Enjolras silently appraising that open height; surrounded by towers and the outer frames of arching windows. Enjolras looked over at him, as if remembering he was there, and Grantaire was struck with the sudden, bizarre thought of simply leaving Enjolras here. The absurdity of the situation seemed to have caught up to his mind. “But this doesn’t seem the most accessible place to be distributing posters.” 

Enjolras didn’t snort, but a crooked smile lit his face; dimpling one cheek before vanishing and Grantaire wished he didn’t feel that as some kind of twisted victory, but his feelings had never been particularly obedient when it came to the person sitting before him on that fourth floor roof; creeping closer to the edge.

“Do you mind being here for a bit?” He asked Grantaire, and he was looking at him properly now; clear eyes pinning Grantaire’s, face stern as he genuinely asked whether Grantaire would be happy to stay here, away from everyone and everything else, but Enjolras. 

And instead, of course, Grantaire gave a shrug, as if his heart wasn’t hammering some Charleston against his ribs; and that part of his chest Enjolras had touched wasn’t still glowing with warmth. 

Enjolras’s legs were drawn up towards his chest; toes touching the gutter below him, and Grantaire settled next to him, hearing Enjolras apologise for kissing him again in his mind and feeling that accompanying leaden feeling swoop about his body once more. 

Enjolras did not seem eager to say anything soon, he was looking ahead; and perhaps he had lost that awareness that Grantaire was also there once again. Grantaire watched him from the corner of his eyes, hands knotted in fists as they worked about his knees; semblances of calm draining away like ocean swell. 

Enjolras looked tired, he considered. There was a slackness to his posture; a heaviness to his eyelids, and when he turned to look at Grantaire shadows were under his eyes like smudges from a thumb strewn with charcoal. 

“It’s rather stunning, isn’t it?” He said it as if it were a statement, some kind of distant observation that he hadn’t quite picked up on before, and Grantaire dragged his eyes from Enjolras to look ahead; forcing his eyes to take it in. 

The lake spanned ahead of them; below the rocky outcrop that ended the short span of grounds this side of the castle. The sun had freed itself from the clouds that had dispersed in the low western sky; hurling cold light onto the still surface of the water. It rippled now and then; some unseen something out of sight stirring the dark water. The hills in the distance faded into cloud; bracken staining them a faded russet. Below them, the greenhouses were set alight by the fading light; flashes of sunlight escaping the cloud and making the stained glass gleam gold. 

The roof was cold beneath him, and Grantaire shifted slightly.

“You’re just noticing?” He asked, smirking weakly.

“I suppose.” Enjolras said, and Grantaire missed the rueful smile as he determinedly stared out at the fading evening, “Combeferre says I don’t notice a lot of things.” 

Grantaire didn’t trust himself to reply to that loquaciously. Instead, he moved his hands inside his sleeves, locating the loose thread in the left cuff he’d worked there in the changing rooms, tugging at it now as if that would distract him or unravel that feeling of tightness strung across his chest.

He was fourteen metres from the ground, and he felt like every metre had pounded some unsettled feeling into his bones; forced itself into that small expanse of ribs that Enjolras’s hand had pressed against; and set his skin prickling with the knowledge that Enjolras was close enough to touch; breathing quietly next to him as he took in the scenery unfolded before them in evening hues like leaking paint. 

He felt his hands absently come up to his hair, fingers moving over along his jaw, and perhaps he was at last needing to shave regularly. 

“Are you ok?” 

Enjolras was watching him closely, and Grantaire wasn’t quite sure how he’d missed that.

“I’m great.” Grantaire said, far too quickly, and the words stuck slightly on the roof of his mouth; sounding strangled. “Wasn’t quite expecting my evening to be spent on a rooftop with you, but I suppose I did spectacularly fail my Divination OWL.” 

“Sorry,” Enjolras said, straightening slightly; and discomfort suddenly found its way onto his posture, and it occurred distantly to Grantaire that he had been relaxed here. And he’d gone and ruined it. “We can go back.”

“Shut up.” Grantaire responded, and felt an inward twist of guilt. That hadn’t sounded quite as light hearted as he had intended, and Enjolras’s expression was now stuck somewhere between bewildered and defensive. “I mean, I’m happy to stay.”

There were a lot of definitions for happy, but as he hunched his posture slacker, shaking fingers wound together so tightly it was starting to hurt; with Enjolras looking at him so intently he felt certain of heat searing his face, he was fairly certain he was feeling nothing like it. His stomach felt rather like he’d drank one of Bossuet’s failed potions he'd used to invent in fourth year. 

The silence between them seemed to stretch longer here; the only noise the wind rustling the lone tree below them; the subdued talk of birds still waiting for spring.

“You’re cold.” 

Grantaire jumped at the suddenness of Enjolras’s tone; once again laced with something like confrontation. And his mind slurred and halted, no words coming to his lips as Enjolras’s glance lit on his hands; eyebrows furrowed in something like a scowl. 

And Grantaire, who couldn’t find the words to say his hands were not shaking from cold, let Enjolras take his fingers in a gentle hand, wand appearing in hand, head bowed as he muttered a spell that sent warmth flooding to his skin.

“Right.” Grantaire croaked, and his hands were still in Enjolras’s grip; his thumb resting on his knuckles; brushing warmth there. “Thanks.” 

“Joly taught me that.” Enjolras was saying; and Grantaire’s ears had never struggled to function more. Enjolras was speaking quietly, hesitantly. And his hand was still on Grantaire’s, his grip firm and determined, and perhaps he hadn’t realised he had not moved; and Grantaire had frozen at his touch, ready to bolt like some frightened rabbit. 

“Right,” Grantaire said again, in some hideously false cheery voice, the origins of which he was unaware. “Great.” 

His tone seemed to pull Enjolras from whatever had left him motionless, with his hand on Grantaire’s. He pulled away, and Grantaire tried not to notice the pathetic nature of his own hand flumping limply to his lap. 

The sun was partly concealed behind the expanse of hills along the horizon now; still bright enough to hurt when looked at too long. The shadows were long and gaping; and Grantaire looked down at his hands, hands Enjolras had just been touching, and watched the shadows creep across his fingers. 

There was a rustle of wings, and an owl swooped past out into the sky stained by twilight, wings a steady thrumming motion that did nothing to echo the frantic race of Grantaire’s own heart. 

“How about that History of Magic essay, then?” He finally blurted. 

Beside him, Enjolras sent him another of those nonplussed looks, and it seemed to have been an evening for that, Grantaire mused, his eyes fixed steadily on Enjolras’s. Some uncertain, cautious dance round one another that Grantaire could not comprehend or express the reason for. He felt unsteady and sick. 

But here on that rooftop, with the last throws of cold winter sunlight just stroking their legs, that leaden that was so constantly haunting him feeling had somehow alleviated. 

He was still looking at Enjolras, and slowly, Enjolras’s features relaxed into a smile. Not a strained or frustrated one, but a warm one, warm like the spell still flooding his skin up along to his wrists. 

The sun finally slipped out of sight for another day; leaving stained orange along the horizon that caught the low clouds and set them ablaze.

Not that Grantaire was remotely looking at it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAYY i'm still taking ages between updates i'm so sorry i am trying i promise ahhh  
> thank you for all the comments you are all the absolute best <3   
> as ever i'm [here](http://icarus-drunk.tumblr.com/)


	11. handlebar moustaches and roses feature heavily, and it's warm despite the cold

The sky above the Great Hall was the steely grey of early February. The owl beside Combeferre launched itself up towards the looming clouds that were still debating snow; claws knocking the edge of his goblet. Drops of orange juice splattered across the table like rays of sunshine.

It was a Tuesday morning; only the second day of a week that was overcast and had set a gloominess about the castle, one that Jehan had informed Combeferre he quite liked to watch from the vast windows of the Ravenclaw common room. 

Next to him, Bossuet, Bahorel and Joly were trying to create a formula for homemade Floo Powder. Bahorel was leaning over his bowl of cereal to peer at the parchment Joly was scribbling on, giggling slightly.

“Who got question eight?” Grantaire asked through a mouthful of toast, looking up from the parchment at his elbow, and in the direction of those who did Herbology. 

“Hang on,” Courfeyrac replied, three seats down from Combeferre, dropping his spoon and diving for his rucksack. And Combeferre’s heart gave a wild leap at the reminder of his presence, heat rushing up to his cheeks as if he could feel Enjolras’s eyes on him. 

The weeks after Christmas had been unusual; those weeks following every last resolve of his crumbling and landing his lips on Courfeyrac’s. A crumbling that had been waiting to happen ever since he’d stood there in the Entrance Hall before the holidays, wishing himself the confidence to say the words he’d wanted to so desperately; to tell Courfeyrac he wanted him to be so much more than what he already was. 

They’d set up some bizarre pattern now; one where Courfeyrac would lean across sometimes and take his hand, or touch cautious fingers to his hair when they were studying together. And he supposed that none of their friends had asked them about it for the same reason they hadn’t asked about the days when Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta had begun their lingering glances and long hours in Madam Puddifoot’s. They had barely set up what it was that existed between them, so how was there a way to explain it?

And Courfeyrac was self-assured and confident about so many things, but this seemed to be something that was an exception. _This_ , which was Combeferre feeling like his skin had been set alight whenever he was near him; his hands burning to hold his, to trace the profile of his face, the curls of his hair and the arch of his eyebrows. 

Joly nudged him, and his spoonful of porridge fell with a rather disgruntled slap back into the bowl,

“We’ve got fairy wing, dandelion root and a healthy handful of glitter.” He said, fanning his quill against his chin, “What else do you reckon?”

Combeferre coughed thickly, mind feeling rather akin to the scrambled egg Joly had plied on his toast.

“Powdered Runespoor fangs ought to be in there.” He said after a moment and Joly gave a whoop of agreement.

“What happens when you get this wrong?” Eponine asked from further down the table,

“An Iliad of disasters!” Grantaire exclaimed, setting his face down onto the palm of his hand. The quick movement rattled the nearby cutlery. 

“I disapprove of your choice of the word ‘when’ over that of ‘if,” Bahorel informed her, as Eponine realigned her spoon and fork, looking rather unimpressed. 

“You’re not actually going to try this out, are you?” Enjolras asked him.

“Pass the Pixie Puffs, will you?” Bahorel said airily, which appeared to answer that question. 

The chime of the clock tower announced the morning lessons about to begin, and from the crowd that had already begun to file out of the hall, Montparnasse dropped into the space beside Eponine, and planted a kiss on her cheek. 

She gave a sigh around an amused twist of her lips, and waved her wand, and a moment later a shower of glitter descended upon Montparnasse’s head.

Combeferre wondered why she’d bothered. Montparnasse looked as if exams had been cancelled. 

“Time’s up, R,” Musichetta trilled in a sing song voice, leaning over the table to tug Grantaire’s hair as she got to her feet. “Herbology time.”

“I should have copied this off my other friends.” Grantaire said with a theatrical sigh, as Feuilly clapped him on the back. 

Courfeyrac caught Combeferre’s eye as they both extricated themselves from the benches, and Combeferre felt that rush of heat again; stealing over him as Courfeyrac’s brown eyes locked on his. Courfeyrac’s face split into a grin; one of his brighter ones that lit his face and dimpled his cheeks; one that seemed both sheepish and unapologetically happy.

And Combeferre abruptly wondered if the past few months needn’t have been so dark. 

The rain finally began to fall in a fine drizzle when they left the castle and headed down the steps into the grounds. Feuilly dashed off with his bag over his head, calling out and movements exaggerated, before disappearing from sight as he sprinted through the archway that lead round to the greenhouses clustered on the edge of the grounds; the lake below them rippling from hesitant rain. Joly followed him, his progress slower as he clutched a stitch at his side, laughing breathlessly. 

Combeferre had reached out and touched Courfeyrac’s hand before he was entirely conscious of it.

“Can I ask you something?” He asked softly, and Courfeyrac drew to a halt, turning to face him instantly. Combeferre had to look down at him nowadays. When they’d first met, his angular limbs had still been that of a scrawny eleven year old; and Courfeyrac had been the boy whose body had never had that awkward stretch of growth; who had been the tallest in the year; excitable and confident. Combeferre suspected the summer when he’d been eating twelve Weetabix’s for breakfast had been the turning point between their heights. 

Courfeyrac looked faintly cautious now, he thought; standing centimetres from the castle wall that was blanketed in ivy, and Combeferre felt the words rushing from him before he could check them. 

“Would you like to go to Hogsmeade with me on the next weekend?”

“Oh,” Courfeyrac breathed, and his face warmed into a smile; one that creased the skin about his eyes, “ _Yes_.” 

It was an odd situation to be in, Combeferre mused, as Courfeyrac stood there beaming at him, as if the creased skin about his eyes and the dimples on his cheeks really were providing the only source of sunlight on this overcast day. Odd, in that he was standing before the first person he’d ever felt that he’d want to spend the rest of his life knowing; in that way that eleven year olds sometimes think, but now he was laced with a hesitant uncertainty; that made his palms hot and his heart race until it ached. 

A raindrop hit against Courfeyrac’s brow, sinking down the side of his face.

“I think,” Combeferre said slowly, watching that water droplet track along warm skin, “That the greenhouses are calling us.”

“That’s just Joly singing.” Courfeyrac replied, and he leaned forwards, and kissed him in that small corner of the grounds; the walls about them woven with ivy and the rain beginning to make itself heard as it hit against roof tiles and windowpanes high above them. 

He didn’t think he’d ever get used to that, he thought, as Courfeyrac touched a cautious hand to his hair; warm skin against his and the soft rasp of breath filling the air between them. But he was quite accepting of that fact.

The rain took up its strength in a fit of decisiveness, and Courfeyrac shifted as if to draw away. Combeferre’s hands tightened from where they had rested themselves on the stretch of Courfeyrac’s forearms, and with a huff of something like amusement, Courfeyrac pressed his lips against his own again; warm and steady. The rain began to drip at Combeferre's neck; working its way beneath the collar of his robes, but somehow, he didn’t really care.

“Sorry,” Combeferre breathed when they finally drew apart, “I’ve been wanting to do that for a long while.”

Courfeyrac grinned at him again. The rain was doing its best to flatten his curls to his temple; strands of hair glinting coppery in the dull grey light of the morning.

“You have _no_ idea.” He replied.

\- 

Snow clouds settled in again a week later; sweeping a blanket of ice about the grounds that trapped the crocuses that had been tentatively sprouting from the hard ground. They withered and shrank, and Joly was sad to watch them die.

The first Hogsmeade weekend of the New Year dribbled into existence with more of the wet snow that had been soaking his legs whenever they walked towards the greenhouses. The Great Hall had been cold, but it was nothing to the peals of bitter wind that met them when they stepped out through the doors to the grounds that morning. 

“Fuck _me_.” Grantaire said loudly, as their scarves were whipped up about their heads, and Courfeyrac’s woollen hat shot from his head, splaying forwards onto the trodden ground. Grantaire’s comment caused a group of nearby third years to snigger nervously. 

An awful lot of students seemed to have separated themselves into pairs, Joly noted. He supposed it _was_ Valentine’s Day; which seemed to be taken seriously in most cases, for reasons Enjolras had long since polluted for him with reminders of capitalism. Courfeyrac had happily destroyed much of its gravity by sending a personalised singing card to each of his friends, and some passing acquaintances. Joly’s was in his pocket; and its muffled attempts at trying to inform him how beautiful he was were lost on the cold wind. He cast brief moment of amused reflection on the sure to be crammed state of Madame Puddifoot’s today. 

“You lot can go ahead,” Combeferre said, and something in the tone of his voice made Joly turn to look at him. Through the gap he’d made, between woollen hat and woven scarf, Combeferre appeared rather pink. But it _was_ below freezing.

“Yeah,” Courfeyrac took up, and Bossuet began to nudge Joly’s side, “We’re going to get a butterbeer,” 

“So were-” Bahorel began, but he abruptly stopped speaking. Coincidentally, there was a strident stamping noise, and Joly looked over to see Bahorel rubbing his foot, glaring at Eponine. 

“See you later.” Enjolras said, voice light over the words, but there was a definite smirk tugging at his lips, and Joly began to nudge Bossuet back. 

They stood back as Courfeyrac and Combeferre moved ahead of them; both of their shoulders pulled high and backs straight and tense. 

Joly waited a few seconds before giggling. 

“Can we ask them about it yet?” Jehan asked, extricating the lower half of his face from the folds of a violently coloured scarf in order to make himself heard.

“ _No_.” Enjolras said, with a gravity that thoroughly ended the subject. 

“I saw it coming.” Musichetta commented, swinging her hair over her shoulder as they began to walk slowly in the direction Combeferre and Courfeyrac had gone; towards the edge of the grounds and along the snow coated path to the small village. 

“No, you didn’t.” 

“I didn’t realise Combeferre was Courf’s type,” Feuilly reflected, and Joly supposed he knew what he meant. Combeferre was quiet and pensive, where Courfeyrac was brash and loud and colourful as the flowers that had sprouted too soon around the bare trees. But perhaps that was why. 

“He likes him a lot,” Marius said, and paid for the comment the whole walk to Hogsmeade, with Feuilly and Bahorel hounding and pestering him for details. 

They idled a time in Zonko’s; where Joly thawed his cold hands over the controls of one of the _aviatomobiles_ that were free to test. It zoomed upwards and spiralled over the heads of the crowds; popping the bubbles that had expelled themselves from the machines set on the rafters. 

They left when Bahorel was contented with the amount of trick wands he’d purchased, and as an apparent Valentine’s gift, Musichetta bestowed Bossuet and Joly with a pack of fake moustaches each.

A dark, handlebar moustache _did_ add a layer of warmth, he reflected, as they stepped back out into the harsh winds that whipped themselves down the high-street; laced with flurries of snow. 

The warmth of the Three Broomsticks enveloped him as if he’d just wrapped a blanket about himself. There was something about it that set a happiness rising in his chest; like the bubbles that had danced along the ceiling of Zonko’s, as if he could find contentment just by looking at the misted, latticed windows, or the wooden panelled walls.

“Hand me your money,” Bahorel told them after a chaotic dash to the biggest free table set near the arching stone fireplace. It was normally Bahorel who got enlisted into ordering butterbeers; his height and sheer shoulder width could part crowds with an ease Joly was always slightly envious of. This time, he dragged a heavily grumbling Feuilly with him by the collar of his robes. 

“Here,” Bossuet said to Joly, pulling out the chair nearest the fire and gesturing him towards it, “You look frozen.”

“My moustache _is_ a little chilly.” Joly agreed, settling onto the chair and grinning as Bossuet pressed a kiss to his cheek. Bossuet's own, mercifully fake, blonde walrus moustache tickled against his skin. 

Grantaire settled on the seat opposite him, freeing his hands from the confines of his sleeves, and Joly spared a moment to wish that he’d given him some gloves for Christmas. 

“Shouldn’t you lot be trapped in Madame Puddifoot’s?” He asked Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta, a customary smirk etched on his face, and Musichetta made a decisive retching noise at the suggestion.

“I endured that café only because of you two,” She said, punching Bossuet and Joly lightly on their arms.

“I’m not sure we can go back there after that fourth year escapade.” Joly reminded him, and Bossuet burst into laughter. 

“I _do_ still have nightmares about heart shaped confetti.” Grantaire mused, flopping back on his chair and bringing one of the strings of his hoodie to his mouth. 

Joly was half expecting Grantaire to bring up one of his dates; or at least one of the dates that had been proposed to him, where Madame Puddifoot’s seemed to feature so largely. But he didn’t. 

He did seem distracted, fidgeting in his seat; and it was a restlessness that seemed to have draped itself on him for the past week or so. Joly could have said without needing to look too closely at him that he needed more sleep. 

That swoop of tenseness was debilitating when it threw itself down on him, but it felt even worse when it was caused because of his friends. 

Bahorel and Feuilly returned laden with butterbeers five minutes later, encroaching on the Exploding Snap game that Jehan had begun with Marius and Cosette. Joly had been surprised the two of them hadn’t been exactly where Musichetta had so eloquently professed she would rather not be. Although the Three Broomsticks did hold a charm, he supposed, in between the crush of people and chorus of loud voices, that perhaps nowhere else in Hogsmeade did. 

“We tried to find Courf and Combeferre,” Feuilly sighed, kicking Grantaire’s chair leg until he moved over and allowed Feuilly to drag forwards his own seat, “But they’re crafty. This place is too full of people to see anyone.” 

“Paradoxes are beautiful.” Grantaire concluded, absentmindedly sucking on a string of his hoodie.

“-Enjolras.” Joly prodded. He’d been trying to pass Enjolras his butterbeer, but he was apparently fixated in Grantaire’s direction; eyes set on Grantaire’s face in an expression Joly didn’t quite recognise on him. 

“Oh.” He said in a quiet voice, and accepted the drink with a distractedness that settled oddly about his normally quick and decisive movements. 

“Is that a _rose_?” Bahorel suddenly said in a carrying voice, and they all looked in the direction he was staring at.

Eponine was at the other end of his stare, and at the sudden rush of attention she looked highly amused. 

“This?” She questioned, holding up what was definitely a rose, that had been resting by her elbow before Bahorel had spoken, “I believe that’s what they’re called, yeah.”

“Where did it come from?” Jehan asked, looking up at the wooden ceiling, as if he were really half hoping flowers might start raining from it.

“I imagine Montparnasse just walked past,” Eponine sighed, and she shifted in her seat to look at the door, “Yeah, he’s over there.”

“How did nobody see that?” Cosette asked. And Joly supposed she hadn’t been around them long enough to hear about the time Bahorel had walked unknowingly about Hogwarts all day with a glittery rainbow sticker on the back of his collar. 

“Can we call it romantic?” Feuilly mused.

“We can call it lame.” Eponine said with a finality in her tone. But there was a definite smirk on her lips, Joly thought, when he looked back at her a second or two later. 

Joly’s fingertips might not have warmed up throughout their afternoon there; and his head was aching with the possible start of a head cold, but as he sat there in that warm corner of the pub, he wondered how it was possible to be much luckier. 

He watched Bahorel teasing Feuilly; and Eponine laughing loudly at his retorts. And Jehan pausing his conversation with Grantaire to scribble something on a roll of parchment, free arm gesturing enthusiastically. Marius and Cosette, looking at one another as if they’d never seen anything brighter. Enjolras, watching Jehan and Grantaire’s interaction with a fondness Joly sometimes forgot he felt. And Musichetta and Bossuet; hands linked and laughing at the moustache Bossuet had just lost in his butterbeer. 

Joly grinned, and wondered how a day of love could ever be consigned to just one person

-

All things considered, the library had never been the best place for a conversation.

But Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac tried their best on Monday break time regardless. 

Enjolras had been intending to finish his History of Magic essay for the next period, but he’d led himself somewhat off course by asking the two of them how Hogsmeade had been. 

He’d left it over the weekend; content with their matching grins when they'd returned to the Great Hall for dinner on the Saturday evening, and feeling like perhaps they would tell him when they wanted to, and he should respect that. 

But Courfeyrac had briefly mentioned Saturday as he’d reached over to borrow his copy of _A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration_ , and he’d taken that as invitation enough.

“We didn’t see you in the Three Broomsticks.” Enjolras whispered. He had a nagging feeling Madame Pince was just behind the row of books behind them, one he'd been proved right on too many times to ignore now.

“No, you wouldn’t have.” Comebeferre smiled, as Courfeyrac let out a muted snigger, and disguised it hurriedly by turning a page. It rasped loudly in the quiet row, “We, er, went to Tomes and Scrolls instead.”

Enjolras snorted. 

“I should have guessed.” And really, he should have. If Combeferre loved books, and Courfeyrac loved learning, a bookshop was naturally an ideal location to spend a first date.

“We perused the Numerology and Biology sections to our hearts’ content.” Courfeyrac embellished, sweeping a hand out for emphasis. His knuckles hit against the stack of books they’d collected and Combeferre and Enjolras mutedly hushed him. 

“It was good, though?” Enjolras asked in a hushed tone, looking between them. Combeferre smiled again, and he exchanged a furtive look with Courfeyrac. 

“Yeah,” Courfeyrac replied, taking a moment to look back at Enjolras, “It definitely was.”

He suddenly felt as if he’d shut himself out of that moment, and dropped his head towards the pages of _A History of Magic_. They smelled musty, some kind of nutty scent he could never quite describe. 

Thinking of the subject he was supposed to be finishing an essay on naturally led him towards Grantaire. Well, he supposed it was natural. 

The past few lessons might have felt easier after their encounter that had led to them sitting side by side on those leaden roof tiles as the evening had faded in about them. But it seemed to have wound that tension about him still further. He couldn’t say if Grantaire felt it too, and he had little reason to suppose he did. After all, he was the one who had his own actions strung about his mind so continuously; analysing how he was about Grantaire before he slept, and whilst he was awake. He was the one who couldn’t quite tear his eyes away from Grantaire now whenever they came into close proximity. 

He’d watched, as if under a spell, noting the way Grantaire fidgeted; the way his hands drummed inaudible beats on table tops and legs. The way his lips quirked and twitched and grinned, and the way his throat worked when he laughed. He’d watch Joly or Feuilly slap him lightly whenever he shot a deprecating comment at himself, and the way Musichetta or Cosette collapsed into a hysterics at a wry or ridiculous comment. 

And with each second he’d further convinced himself that whilst he was sinking deeper into whatever this was, Grantaire seemed to be pulling himself out of it.

Except for the rooftop, his brain continued to supply, as if the thought were a breath of warmth in the midst of the cold weather that continued its assault of the grounds. The rooftop had perhaps been different. Some stolen moment where Grantaire didn’t mind Enjolras’s hands touching his; where they could sit shoulder to shoulder without that inexplicable fear of dislike or hostility that Enjolras was sometimes certain he felt from Grantaire; that he’d felt since meeting him for reasons he couldn’t clarify.

He ran a hand through his hair, propping his chin up, and out of the corner of his eye he watched Combeferre and Courfeyrac. They were whispering to each other, the words inaudible to Enjolras’s ear, and Courfeyrac had leant over, and was doodling something in the margins of Combeferre’s work. 

It wasn’t jealousy that worked its way about him, because that was the wrong word. But as Courfeyrac leant back and Enjolras saw that he’d drawn a crudely illustrated moth, spreading patterned wings towards an undrawn sky, he felt a swooping feeling of longing that he’d never experienced before.

He looked at the inked moth; through the gaps of his fingers that were still propping up the side of his face; taking in the firmly dotted lines of its splayed wings, and the small kiss that had been added quickly to the edge of the margin, and he let that longing feeling steal over him as if it were the sunshine that had too long been absent from the castle. 

By a misjudged gesture a moment later, Courfeyrac knocked the pile of books over, and Madame Pince sprang from behind the shelves to reprimand them in a shrill voice.

Enjolras couldn't say whether he was thankful or not to be pulled out of that self-pitying reverie by a furious librarian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eeeek thank you for bearing with me !!! (and gosh thank you for the lovely comments they are too kind ahhh) i don't think there's too long to go now !! (well i say that i'm aiming to get them to early july JK style..)


	12. the nights are cold, and greek myths light the skies

Grantaire already begrudged Professor Binns his liberalness with seating plans, but he, along with the rest of their teachers, gave a new reason for dislike as February blew into March on cold, bitter winds that howled down the corridors. 

Work seemingly piled in from nowhere; as if it were the rising snowbanks that were finally beginning to thaw in lieu of the rain. He’d been eternally grateful that Hufflepuff’s next match wasn’t until April. As poetic as Jehan could make it sound, playing in a rainstorm had never been an ideal prospect.

So instead he could spend his time valiantly attempting to ignore the work that had been set ruthlessly for every subject he took. The frazzled look that began to sneak onto the faces of the rest of the sixth years told him that sinking, plummeting feeling that took hold of him whenever he thought about essays was not a unique one.

“How’s ‘Aspohdel’ spelt, again?” Bahorel asked through the tip of a quill on a Saturday evening, not long after dinner had been cleared from the four sweeping house tables. The people about them were yawning; the low buzz of weekend talk humming about the room like a quiet record. 

They were crammed into a small corner of the Ravenclaw common room, next to an astronomical clock that was ticking and whirring quietly, as if murmuring to itself. The sky outside the tall windows was studded with occasional stars; before clouds billowed across it and wiped them out into inky blackness. 

Feuilly yawned hugely, stretching his arms over his head, and spelt out a word that was definitely not ‘aspohdel.’ 

“I’m quitting.” Eponine said, throwing down her quill and glowering at her essay for Astronomy as if it had personally insulted her, “Who even _cares_ about Io’s volcanoes.” 

“Moo.” Grantaire said from his spot on the floor, and Combeferre shot him a look of despair. 

“How long until the Easter Holidays?” Bossuet yawned. 

“Three weeks.” Cosette told him instantly, looking up from where she had been plaiting Bahorel’s hair, and Bossuet flopped backwards in his chair, groaning. Musichetta leant forwards over _Witch Weekly_ to give him a comforting pat on the arm. 

Grantaire looked up from the inked doodles he’d been spiralling on the corner of his essay for Professor Binns as Marius passed him a Chocolate Frog. He caught Enjolras’s eye as he did so, fingers fumbling on the edges of the packaging as a shot of _something_ rushed through him like firewhiskey. 

And Enjolras blushed, and behind them, a soft explosion set Grantaire’s ears ringing.

“That’s what would have happened if you’d kept with your Floo Powder creation.” Musichetta informed Joly, as the students apparently responsible for the disturbance dissolved into laughter.

“They all look happy,” Joly countered. 

“And _singed_.” 

Grantaire lowered his gaze to the Chocolate Frog card, and wished he didn’t feel like Enjolras was still watching him; a feeling that had laced itself infuriatingly along his skin like warm sunshine, and one that sent him spiralling with self-hatred, because _why_ would Enjolras be watching him. 

He settled for ripping open the card, cramming the frog into his mouth before it could leap away, and looking at the card. Archibald Alderton, who had accidentally blown up a village whilst attempting to mix a birthday cake, grinned sheepishly up at him. Cake mix was dripping from his nose. 

He couldn’t say if Archibald’s easy mistake that had earned him a ridiculed place in history made him feel at all better. 

“Trade you,” Feuilly’s voice said, and Grantaire jumped, accepting Circe somewhat absent-mindedly. 

Jehan came and settled down next to him, humming quietly under his breath. He nudged against Grantaire’s arm with his own, and made a pleased sound when he saw the picture on the card.

“The fair-locked goddess.” He said, “She was an opium dream according to Glatigny.” 

“Mmm.” Grantaire responded, and found himself filing that information away in a segment of his mind that liked to summon itself forwards like a creeping plant, particularly when he was certain that nobody cared to hear it. 

He liked Jehan, ever since the fourth time they’d sat at the same small, red clothed table in Divination back in third year. They’d spoken about Homer and Keats instead of the tea leaves and fortunes they could see in the bottom of china cups. It had been quite a distant liking, though. Jehan possessed that distracted look about his eyes, as if his mind were constantly somewhere far above them, and most of the time he’d been too unsure of what he was thinking of. Unlike with Joly and Bossuet, who had been loud and unapologetic in their treatment of him, something which Grantaire had found revitalizing, as if he’d stepped into a cold sea. 

But he looked across at him now; at the strands of his fringe that were growing over towards his eyelashes now; jagged lines he seemed to cut himself. And he felt a rush of fondness for him, and wondered if Jehan ever looked at him and thought the same, as he looked on tired eyes and matted curls Grantaire should have cut months ago. The feeling gave him an odd sort of queasiness as some dark segment of his mind dismissed the sentiment with ridicule. 

Jehan yawned, stretching arms towards the ceiling that was swirling idly with gilded constellations against navy blue paint. Pegasus seemed to somehow gallop, the stars that lined his hooves waving gold rays about the roof beams. 

“I like your common room, Prouvaire,” He said softly, and Jehan made a pleased noise in the back of his throat, 

“I’m sure I’d like yours if I could get into it more often,” He replied, “That barrel combination of yours is infuriating. I went to visit Marius once and got doused in vinegar. All you have to do here is answer that eagle door knocker’s riddle.”

“Yeah, but he’s a very pretentious eagle.” 

“I _beg_ your pardon?” Bossuet said. 

“Does this water I just conjured taste right to you?” Courfeyrac asked, shoving the goblet that he’d borrowed from the house tables under Combeferre’s nose, clear liquid sloshing about in it. Combeferre looked horrified at the question.

Grantaire sank back against the bottom of the armchair he had sat by; the worn blue fabric soft against his back as he watched the group of people he’d known for the happiest years of his life. He watched Combeferre now smiling at Courfeyrac, in a way he perhaps always had; and Joly and Bossuet peering at a paragraph of _Flesh-Eating Trees of the World_ ; foreheads touching. And Jehan, his arm pressed against his own, humming under his breath as he scrawled his indecipherable handwriting onto the parchment he’d balanced against his leg.

A smile found its way onto his lips, not quite taking him by surprise, but he couldn’t quite remember doing it. 

Up above him Pegasus arched his legs, silent, and mutedly gave chase to run alongside the glimmering stars that made Perseus; running together as they might have done all those centuries ago, when the people of Mycenae first spoke of the hero that had founded their city, on the harsh, dry hills of southern Greece.

-

The guinea pig on Cosette’s latest copy of _Transfiguration Today_ finished cleaning itself and looked at Eponine with a look in its eyes that she was fairly convinced was contempt. It still had a few feathers on its ginger fur from her previous attempt to turn it into a guinea fowl.

“This is bullshit.” She muttered to Grantaire, who was busy gently poking his guinea fowl with his wand in an attempt to get it to stop squeaking. 

“What happened to the lessons where we just dyed other people’s eyebrows different colours?” He agreed. 

It was twenty minutes before the end of the lesson, on a Thursday morning that had washed in on the same grey clouds that had hung above the turrets and slate roof tiles of the castle, and the slowly sprouting leaves of the Forbidden Forest for the past week. 

The dreariness had settled itself across Eponine’s mind too, and she now leant back in her chair, resting her head back and staring at the rafters above them, sighing heavily. 

Someone was passing a note; a paper crane circling through the air above her, before swooping down when the coast was clear.

"Are guinea fowls supposed to hiccup?" Cosette asked her, and she was fairly sure she had only said it to make her feel better, but she began to laugh nonetheless. 

They were called to silence a moment later, to leave their guinea pigs and guinea fowl and odd mixtures of the two, to copy down notes from the blackboard at the front of the room, on the theory of mammal to bird transfiguration. The room became silent compared to the earlier loud talk of a classroom and the occasional bang of a wand reacting to a too brash incantation. She listened to the steady chirping of the guinea fowls, and the soft clatter of the guinea pigs roving over the desks. On her left, Grantaire was sniggering to himself as his guinea pig steadily began to chew on the corner of his textbook. 

Cosette’s guinea fowl had sleek feathers, white spots interspersed delicately about its dark plumage, and Eponine tried to ignore that ugly stab of bitterness that always instilled itself in her throat whenever her mind dwelled on Cosette for too long. 

She still wasn’t entirely sure if Cosette could read through the brashness Eponine had adopted earlier in all interactions that had taken place when she had found herself with Cosette and Marius. At first she’d felt the weakness of her attempts to smile, to say anything light-hearted, and she’d hated herself for it, but not as much as she’d hated that feeling that had swept over her like murky lake water when she’d made herself watch Marius take Cosette’s hand, or the way he’d looked at Cosette laugh as if it was all he’d ever want to watch again. 

There had definitely been some sort of sadness about Cosette’s eyes when she’d looked at her, but maybe Eponine was imagining things; casting fictitious details into expressions like she’d been doing for too many years with Marius.

But things had grown easier these past few months, like a wound she’d bandaged and tried not to move, wincing as the half-healed skin tore once more. 

And it transpired Cosette, much to that reluctant and painful chagrin, was one of the kindest people she’d ever met.

Her words were gentle but she also held a quick, dry humour that Eponine would never have ascribed to her from first glance. 

And that wound still hurt, and it would leave a scar, she knew. But she’d prefer that than to tear down everything else about her, and so she sat next to Cosette in lessons, and let her jokes lift her spirits in spite of the other feelings she stamped to the floor at the same time. 

And sometimes, she thought that maybe she was happy.

Her guinea pig made a decisive scrabble over to Grantaire’s desk and she let it go.

Grantaire had been odd of late, she mused, watching him now tap his quill against the desktop, free hand coming out to trail a finger quickly along the guinea pig’s back. He seemed somehow distant but also intently focused on something. He’d never been able to sit still, but there was some kind of purpose to the tapping movement of his feet whenever they had classes together, and an almost feverish nature to the doodles he laced about his notes.

Today, he seemed stiller, but that may have had something to do with Enjolras being on his other side. She’d noticed that change in character that overcame Grantaire whenever Enjolras was in close proximity; ever since the second year when the two of them had pretended to get lost on the long walk to Herbology, and snuck round the upper, quieter floors of the castle. She’d never fully asked about it, due to the closed off, abrupt way that Grantaire handled all comments about Enjolras. As if his mind had been hinged on some kind of fear that Eponine felt she understood all too well when that wound somewhere in the region of her chest ripped itself open once again. She’d never asked, and Grantaire had never told her. But the words didn’t need to be spoken, not really. 

Next to her, Grantaire’s leg gave a seemingly involuntary twitch. 

She pretended to understand the complex notes she set with ink on endless streams of parchment until the Clock Tower sounded the end of the lesson; echoing loudly from their place on the third floor, at which she threw the quill down onto the desk with a sigh of relief. She was already dreading NEWT’s.

Beside her, Grantaire leant across and fed a thread of paper to Cosette’s guinea fowl. It made an odd chuckling sound and pecked at his fingers.

The corridor was already starting to fill with the usual pile up as students began to head down to free classrooms or to the courtyards to spend the break time, and Eponine stuck towards the stone walls, skimming a shoulder against it as they made slow progress towards the Grand Staircase; watching Jehan run ahead, saying something about another overdue library book.

She should have seen the kick to the ankle coming.

“You little _squirt_.” She told Gavroche, leaning down to massage the afflicted stretch of skin, as her brother beamed at her. His left canine still hadn’t come through. 

“Too bad you can’t give me detention, sis,” He told her.

“You’re among highly important prefects, young Gavroche,” Courfeyrac informed him, and swooped him up into a rather uncomfortable looking hug, despite his protests.

“You’re all so _embarrassing_ ,” Gavroche huffed, although he settled quite happily on Courfeyrac’s shoulders as they headed out onto the Grand Staircase; steps angling out high above them with their customary gentle grating noise. The place echoed and rumbled with the noise of feet, laughter and the talk of portraits and people.

“What have you just been learning, then?” Courfeyrac asked him. With Gavroche on his shoulders, they just about made Bahorel’s height. 

Gavroche pulled a face at the question.

“Freezing charms,” He replied, then brightened at a recollection, “Did you know they’re great on Muggle burglar alarms?”

“I really don’t want to know how you know that.” Enjolras said from beside Eponine, and she snorted.

“You really don’t.” She agreed. 

Feuilly and Bahorel caught up with them as they began to extricate themselves from the crowd on the ground floor; where they congregated below the staircases moving about the different floors. The castle was always busier during the wetter days. 

“Gavroche!” Bahorel boomed when he spotted him on Courfeyrac’s shoulders still, and he pulled him free, spinning him about manically, making Gavroche laugh uncontrollably until he began to hiccup. 

“Which one of you is twelve years old, again?” Eponine asked Bahorel, and he grinned toothily at her.

They settled in a spare corner of the Entrance Hall, next to a broom closet that had been left ajar, and Eponine sat down on the platform where a golden statue was precariously perched. 

She’d grown used to the scenery about her; the sights that had become every day that had so awed her in the first few months here. They held a familiarity now; the latticed lead windows that arched high from the ceiling, the flagstoned corridors with torches bright in their brackets, the Great Hall; where today she could just glimpse a slither of the grey sky high above them through the great oak doors.

She grown used to it, but she still revelled in the feeling that the castle gave to her; all of what Hogwarts was to her. A place where she was warm, where she went to bed each night without hunger clawing at her sides, where she could _relax_ in a way she never could in those dreaded weeks of summer, summers she spent without sleep, watching her features turn gaunt and sunken.

She was unsure whether to dread the years after Hogwarts or not; but whenever she thought about them it sent a staggering wave of pain about her. The concept of leaving these colourful turrets and spires, and the set pattern she’d created for herself here that was warm like a blanket she had draped across her shoulders, was too unpleasant to consider.

She watched Gavroche now, still hiccupping in between telling Bahorel about his classes, his friends, and the latest detention he’d received, and she thought that he perhaps felt the same. They’d created a solidarity between themselves; built up a way of coping like the delicate bricks in a toy castle. And here there was no threat of it crumbling and breaking at their feet. Here, they were safe and warm.

And it had taken Eponine a while to recognise the feeling in her chest as happiness, but she knew it now, and she let it soar over her; tentative and delicate. But real, like the paper crane that had been passing notes high amongst the roof beams of the classroom.

-

Grantaire couldn’t sleep again that night.

It was nothing new, to find himself staring at the canopy of his bed, the slow breathing of others filling his ears, feeling his heart pulse slowly, like a slow mantra that reminded him of his own inescapable consciousness. 

He couldn’t quite remember the last time he’d slept properly, perhaps one evening after a Quidditch practice when his limbs were tired and aching and his mind was too exhausted to plague him with thoughts that sapped any chance of relaxation away from him, leaving him cast on the shores of restlessness like some kind of plankton or seaweed.

Marius stirred in his sleep, and turned over, and Joly mumbled something incoherently. And Grantaire looked at the faint moonlight falling gently across the far wall; staining the warm ochre colour a pale blue. 

He was sitting up before he was fully conscious of it, running fingers through the tangled curls of his hair, and setting his feet on the cold stone of the floor. 

The room was too quiet, he thought now; filled with low breathing, and the slow tick of a watch on someone’s wrist. It was too quiet, and the awareness of his lack of sub consciousness was rushing loud in his ears. 

He reached instinctively for a threadbare jumper and a pair of shoes, pulling them quietly towards him and slipping into them.

His stuck his wand up his sleeve out of habit; some form of steadiness he’d leant on since he had been eleven years old.

The corridor outside the Hufflepuff Common Room was shrouded in darkness, the paintings on the walls sleeping, except for the bowl of fruit that marked the entrance to the kitchens. The pear sneezed at him as he went past, and he left his wand unlit until he was halfway up the spiralling staircase that wound itself up beside the Astronomy Tower, heading towards that small railed bridge spanning to a small tower, shadows by the turrets about it. 

He was only three quarters of the way up those narrow steps, however, when he heard the tread of another pair of feet, heading down to where he was standing.

“Well, shit.” He muttered to himself, and sank one shoulder against the stone wall to await which teacher had decided to take a walk in the exact place he’d been hoping to pass unnoticed. Any desire to run away had withered, absorbing itself into the exhaustion that laced his body.

But it wasn’t a teacher who appeared a moment later, their features cast in the soft glow of their wandlight. Instead, it was Enjolras who jumped at the sight of him, a hand coming out to hit against the stone wall beside them as he steadied himself.

“ _What_ -” He began, then visibly breathed out heavily, as if to steady a racing heart, and Grantaire allowed himself a brief moment of amusement that he had had that kind of effect on Enjolras’s normally glacial demeanour. 

“Good evening, noble prefect.” He said, trying to act as if his palms hadn’t suddenly turned hot, his heart sliding about in his rib cage as if it had slipped free, “Why are you here?”

“Because,” Enjolras started, then heaved a put-upon sigh, “I’m patrolling corridors to stop students being out of bed.”

Standing there, taking in the peevish expression on Enjolras’s face, Grantaire couldn’t help the uncontrollable snigger that rose in his throat, but the wave of surprise came when Enjolras gave a small exhalation of humour too.

And then they stood there, smiling weakly at one another, Grantaire trying very hard to control the near hysteria that was bubbling at the back of his throat. 

“Are you going to take valuable house points off me?” He finally asked, and he couldn’t help taking in the way the soft wandlight played at Enjolras’s eyelashes, lighting them white and creating soft hollows underneath his low brows.

Enjolras snorted.

“I feel you wouldn’t care.”

Grantaire swept a hand to his chest in mock insult, and he couldn’t drag his gaze from Enjolras; his eyes locked on his, trapped on the worn stone steps on that narrow staircase.

They fell silent, and he let his head rest against the wall, allowing the cool stone to grant his hot skin some relief. Enjolras’s eyes tracked the movement.

“I couldn’t sleep,” He heard himself admit quietly, and it echoed about them regardless of his low tone, ringing about the stone that stretched into darkness above them. Enjolras looked at him, his features illuminated like he’d created a halo for himself, and he couldn’t read the expression traced amongst the freckles on his cheeks, and the small creases on his skin that would dimple when he smiled. 

“Where were you going?” He finally asked, in a gentle tone, quite unlike the one he usually addressed Grantaire with, and Grantaire shrugged haphazardly, thrown by his tone.

“Where I usually go,” And he didn’t know why he said that, why he was sharing this with Enjolras, of all people, something he’d held private for so long. “I mean there’s this stretch of bridge, and, yeah-” He trailed off, smiling humourlessly to himself as he dropped his gaze from Enjolras’s intent stare with a shake of his head, “I’ll leave you to your important nighttime patrol. Unless you want to give me detention, of course?” He sent the grin in Enjolras’s direction, looking away too quickly to see the effect of the words.

Enjolras was silent a moment, and Grantaire had half braced himself to hear some cold dismissal, the rest of his mind focused on how to move round Enjolras in this narrow stairwell, but then Enjolras spoke again, purposefully and loudly. 

“I’ve never been to that part of the castle.” 

“I-what?”

Enjolras was looking at him, that same unreadable expression on his face, pinning Grantaire’s eyes down, and a blush had bewilderingly crept along his cheeks, lighting his features in a way that sent something stinging along Grantaire’s chest. But when he spoke, his voice was steady.

“I’ve never been to that part of the castle.” He said again, and his tone was not so alarming this time, empty of the weird trace of necessity that had been in the words last time.

And for some reason Grantaire felt himself smirk, some semblance of an old reaction forcing its way forwards.

“I’m not one for giving those in power extra knowledge for their corrupted purposes,” He began, but then he was moving up the steps, a hand coming out and hovering a centimetre or so from Enjolras’s arm, half meaning to move him aside but not quite able to touch him for a thousand reasons. Enjolras drew aside anyway, eyes flicking down to his hand, expression blank, “But follow me.”

And he did, after a moment of hesitation, following him silently up the stone steps, worn in their centres after centuries of weary feet. 

It had stopped raining sometime in the late evening, and when Grantaire hesitantly pushed open the oak door that led out onto the small segment of bridge, the air that met him was sharp and cold, hurting his lungs in a clear, welcoming way. To their left, a stretch of roof branched upwards to meet the Astronomy Tower that arched high above. But to the right, the view was unimpeded, spare the roofs that were clustered below them. The grounds arched beneath them, disappearing into the night; the dim outline of the forest a haze of shadows in the distance. He wasn’t sure what time it was, but the stars were fading; dipping in and out of sight as blue and dark lilac clouds raced one another towards the west. 

It was odd, Grantaire mused, as he settled on the low span of wall that merged into roof tile, the cold stone chilling his skin instantly through the thin fabric of his pyjama bottoms. Odd that, now, sitting here with Enjolras in this secluded part of this castle he’d regarded as his for so long, that he was feeling a sudden, nauseating wave of fear, as if Enjolras might scoff, or brush off this place that had come to mean something to him. There was some cruel twist of irony to it, he thought. One that went alongside the game he’d constructed over he years where he so violently pretended he didn’t care what Enjolras thought. 

But the walls to that were crumbling now, shifting like a sandcastle that had dried in the sun, and one he was scrabbling to rebuild, and it was futile. 

“You come here at night?” Enjolras asked in a quiet voice, and a moment later he had sat down beside him. He was still wearing his robes, Grantaire noticed now, his long fingers working at the sleeve absently. 

“Yeah.” Grantaire replied, forcing himself to sink back against the roof tiles, forcing some semblance of ease to his posture. His shoulders remained tight, muscles tensed as if for flight. 

Enjolras made a low hum in his throat at that, as if politely interested, and he looked up at the hesitant stars glittering above them. 

“I can see why you like it,” He said, in a voice so quiet Grantaire might have missed it if he hadn’t been listening, if he hadn’t spent every moment Enjolras was nearby attuned to his movements like some plant following the summer sun. And at the words he exhaled a breath, feeling a rush of something hideously like relief surge over him, and he squinted up at the night sky, hating himself for the way his muscles relaxed, as he leant back properly against the slate roof. 

His hands were dry, in that way that skin often was in winter, and his fingers scraped absently at the skin about his nails, as he watched Enjolras gazing up at the night sky, as if he’d never seen it before. 

“I’ve never really done this before,” Enjolras murmured after a time, still looking up at the sky, chest rising gently as he breathed.

“Sat on a rooftop at a stupid time of night?” Grantaire prompted before he could stop himself,

“Yes-well, no.” Enjolras sat back, leaning against the roof, bringing himself level to Grantaire, apparently unnoticing of the way Grantaire tensed at the increased proximity, “I meant just stop. And take the time to look round I suppose.” 

“You aren’t the type to wax poetics about the inconstant moon.” Grantaire agreed, smirking at the prospect, and Enjolras dropped his gaze from the heavens and turned to face him. 

“Is it annoying?” He asked, “I mean-” He looked away again, down at his hands and he sank back against the roof tiles, fingers interlacing themselves, “I’ve not really stopped to think before, how my personality might impact the way people view the things I want to achieve.” 

Grantaire cast a quick look at the stars glinting above them, trying to pull some reasoning from them as to why Enjolras felt the need to bring this up now, with _him_. 

“Annoying,” He repeated, and tried to force the word out, and he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to laugh or not. “Not quite the word I would use.” 

Enjolras was looking over at him again, he could feel it, and he kept his eyes fixed on the striped lines of his pajama bottoms, fingers tracing the folds with an unnecessary force that made his fingertips white. 

“No?” Enjolras asked, and he sounded oddly amused. 

“No.” Grantaire repeated, and his eyes flicked to look at Enjolras against his will; freezing as his gaze locked on his. 

Enjolras’s wand was still sending waves of soft light fall across them, fading as it branched out across that small railed bridge. It cast light on the strange presence of some kind of amusement in Enjolras's eyes; his lips, shaped like some Bernini sculpture, drifting into something like a smile. 

Grantaire looked away, and before he’d thought it through, waved the wand that he'd been carrying, useless, the tip now beginning to emit a bright glow in some humourless parody of the person beside him. Trails of light spiralled out into the night, sending streams of light lacing upwards; yellow bursts that swirled and faded out towards the stars. 

He felt Enjolras watching the movement of the light, and he allowed himself some brief, stolen moment of peace, where the night reduced itself to the stars, the cold rush of night air and the chill of the stone below him. And Enjolras, quietly sitting there as he watched the summoned light twisting silently away. He let himself focus on those things, and not the torturous, repetitive maze of thoughts that had plagued his tired mind for so long, memories shaded dark and settling some kind of twisted nausea along his chest. 

He thought of Enjolras stopping, as if this were some moment he wanted to pause and observe, here on this rooftop high above so much of the castle. And he thought perhaps, he wasn’t too good at stopping either. 

He was breathing slowly, he dimly realised, half lying there beside Enjolras, their arms so close to touching he wasn’t sure whether he was imagining the warmth stemming from him or not. It was so quiet up here, no noise meeting his ears but the slow breathing of Enjolras, and the far off sound of wind moving the branches of the trees in the Forbidden Forest, whispering gently. 

He wasn’t able to pinpoint the moment his eyes closed, the light from his wand pressing itself to the backs of his eyelids. 

Then the muted noise of a door slamming stirred him, and he jumped. 

He jerked upright, and Enjolras let out a low noise that sounded something like protest.

And Grantaire became abruptly aware that the left side of his face was warm, as if he’d been resting it on something.

He met Enjolras’s eye, and his gaze dropped imperceptibly to Enjolras’s shoulder, and the wrinkled lines of his robes.

“Shit,” He said, offering up the first word his brain supplied, “Was I asleep on you?”

“Oh,” Enjolras said with some air of casualness that might have been effective if the word hadn’t stuck in his throat, and Grantaire felt his stomach somersault before flopping in a withered pile somewhere near his feet, “Yes.” He blushed, and coughed loudly, “I think someone’s coming.” 

Grantaire took a moment to process that, his eyes still fixed on that spot of Enjolras's shoulder. 

“What is it with you prefects and patrolling the one area of the castle I like to hide in?” He tried to say it with grin, but it died somewhere between the actual sincerity of the words, and _falling asleep on Enjolras’s shoulder._

He found himself checking his mouth for drool as Enjolras looked at the door to their right.

“Let’s go down this way,” He said quietly, stepping forwards and brushing Grantaire’s arm with a hand as he gestured towards the door they’d entered by. He dropped the hand quickly, as if it had been something he’d done unconsciously, and the ability to move somehow seemed far too impossible. 

But Enjolras was looking at him, expectant, hand on the door and allowing a slither of the torch-lit corridor to spill light onto the dark blue of the bridge. And there was an oddly cautious look in his eyes, that same guardedness that they always threw up around one another when they were alone together, but when Grantaire met his eyes he smiled. Not a particularly strained smile, but one that warmed the sharp lines of his face; dimpling his cheeks and creasing the skin about his eyes. 

And Grantaire dropped any frozen, staggered reaction he would have given to that if he had held time to think about it, to realise just how bright and blinding Enjolras was when he smiled, genuinely, at him. And he smiled back. That pull of his lips came naturally, thoughtlessly. 

And that mutual reaction lit a warmth within him, as he ducked past Enjolras and into the dimly lit corridor, back towards the lower floors of the castle. A warmth that he felt he could carry anywhere, like a lantern locked safely in his chest.

They left the magical spirals of light twisting on the railed bridge, bright rays lit above the roof tiles and turrets, a thousand sparks like stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this might have been uploaded before if i hadn't lOST 1/4 OF IT OMGGG how emotional  
> anywaay as ever [i'm here on tumblr](http://icarus-drunk.tumblr.com/) and if you're reading this omg you're so great thank you for being here <3


	13. the nights grow slowly lighter and rat brains are pickled

“As a prefect,” Feuilly said in his most important and commanding tone, “I order you all to stop eating jelly like _fucking three year olds._ ”

The weather had done little to improve itself as March slid onwards, but the sky above the Great Hall was lighter than it had been several weeks ago at this time. It set a lightness about Courferyac’s chest, in spite of the clouds above the castle that were still heavy and stained with grey and the promise of rain. 

The candlelight still set the hall in that warm, flickering glow that was characteristic of the colder months, before the evening light still held long enough to see them through dinner. It glimmered and sputtered on the glossy, dark wood table, and lit on the red contents of his bowl of jelly. 

He felt rather certain Feuilly was not addressing him. 

“I’m insulted.” Bahorel said, before cramming his spoon into his mouth and sipping jelly between his teeth as if it were soup. The resulting slurping noise was rather impressive.

“That’s disgusting.” Eponine informed him, and he sent her a wide toothed grin. 

Marius was on Courfeyrac’s right, head bent over his Ancient Runes essay. He seemed unaware that he’d dripped vanilla ice cream onto the top of the parchment.

“You’ve renamed yourself ‘Mar Ercy’,” Cpurfeyrac told him, leaning forwards to point at the blob that had landed squarely on Marius's name, setting half his weight onto his shoulder in a rather limp nudge. And Marius said a word Courfeyrac would never have imagined him saying when they’d met back in first year, crashing headlong in the corridor as they’d hurried to find assigned classrooms; back when this castle had been impenetrably big. 

“Not _again_.” Marius mumbled, and siphoned off the ice cream with a quick flick of his wand as if it were a vacuum cleaner. 

“Did I have detention tonight or tomorrow?” Grantaire put to the table at large, frowning as he considered the two possibilities on his fingers,

“Tonight.” Bahorel informed him, looking far too smug. He’d finally set his spoon down, “And let that be a lesson to you, young one.” 

“What did you do, R?” Jehan asked softly, who had abandoned his spoon and was picking at his jelly with a hand. 

“He kept pelting me with Pufferfish eyes in Potions this morning.” Bahorel said, stretching his arms up above his head and smiling happily at the memory, “Until he was _scolded_.” 

“Apparently I was not only 'sabotaging the work ethic of the classroom, but also jeopardizing another student’s health.'” Grantaire reflected. “And apparently Combeferre setting his cauldron on fire didn’t encroach on those same issues.” 

Combeferre gave a light cough, and looked rather sheepish. 

“I misjudged the amount of Porcupine Quills I should have added.” He said on Courferyac’s questioning glance, “Or rather, should _not_ have added.” 

Courfeyrac let out a delighted cackle, and Combeferre might have looked unimpressed at the reaction, if a blush hadn’t suddenly set itself on his cheeks.

Things had almost steadied themselves with the pattern he and Combeferre had constructed, Courfeyrac thought. It still felt buoyant, as if he were adrift at sea, and this thing between them was only as steady to him as a slip of wood he was balanced on. Not that it felt fragile, or wrong. It was none of those things. Courfeyrac knew that from the rush of warmth that instilled itself about him as Combeferre smiled at him, as he took his hand, when he kissed him in quick moments between lessons. Or longer moments in late night corridors. 

But it was still new, it was still hesitant, in that way that years of friendship cast suddenly, however rightly, into something more surely would feel like. It felt natural, as if he were following a path he hadn’t been able to see at first, but had been beneath his feet the whole while. But it also felt terrifying. 

Marius apparently finished his essay just as the food slipped away and vanished from the platters before them. (Bahorel’s jelly thankfully faded from existence forever.) He threw his quill down and sighed happily. Courfeyrac felt he would wait until he was not looking before siphoning off the smudge of strawberry jelly that had somehow found its way onto the corner of the parchment. Marius sometimes attracted bad luck as if it were a Bludger. 

“I’m exhausted.” Musichetta said with a yawn, draping her arm about Bossuet’s shoulders as they began to get to their feet, “This week has felt so _long_.” 

“I’m counting down until summer.” Bossuet said brightly, patting her hair comfortingly, “Especially if you all want to come and stay at mine again.” 

“Maybe Cosette can prevent Marius from landing his broom on a golf course this time.” Joly added, and Cosette’s cheeks flushed with a pleasure that Courfeyrac felt warm in his own chest whenever he was included in plans.

His attention out of the Great Hall and through the double doors was taken by a brief moment of reflection with Bahorel and Musichetta on the Porskoff Ploy that had been recently used by the Tutshill Tornadoes. And because of this, he didn’t notice Combeferre was on his other side until a hand touched his, fingers light against his skin, warmth rushing briefly across his knuckles.

He took his hand without question, locking his fingers against his, pressing their palms together. 

“Wizard’s chess game back when we’re back in the common room?” Bahorel asked him when they got to the bottom of the marble staircase, waiting to bid a brief farewell to those headed to the Slytherin and Hufflepuff common rooms.

“No can do,” Courfeyrac replied, “Feuilly and I have prefect duty.”

“ _Actually,_ ” Feuilly began, and he was smirking. “I may have traded it.”

“With Enjolras,” Combeferre finished, and Feuilly began to snicker at that. Courfeyrac looked across at Combeferre, watching as he began to smile. The movement pressed a line in his cheek, and wrinkled the skin at the corners of his eyes, and Courfeyrac’s heart twisted slightly. “But due to unforeseen circumstances, he can’t make it.” 

“I thought he was in the library?” Courfeyrac said blankly, because it was certainly not the first time Enjolras had simply forgotten to go to dinner, occasions that were usually proceeded by Courfeyrac and Combeferre marching him down to the kitchens to wheedle some sandwiches from the house elves. 

“He’s not,” Combeferre said, and he sent an odd look in Grantaire’s direction, “Did you have detention in the dungeons, R?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire responded, with a casual shrug, a smile settling across his thin lips with apparent self-satisfaction, “And I suppose I should have been there five minutes ago.” He heaved an amused sigh, gave Feuilly’s outstretched hand a high five, and moved off from the rough circle they’d created at the foot of the marble staircase.

“Don’t sabotage any work ethics!” Bahorel called after him. 

Feuilly exchanged a look with Combeferre,

“Does he know Enjolras has detention in the dungeons?” He asked him. 

“ _What_.” Courfeyrac demanded, voice rising several octaves, spinning a look at Combeferre, who was certainly looking far too smug to claim much innocence. 

“I feel he’s possibly about to find out.” He said lightly. “And we have some corridors to patrol, I think, Courfeyrac?” 

“No words.” Feuilly said with a doleful head-shake, and there was a definite smirk on his lips as they bade one another good night, beginning their individual routes to their common rooms.

The Entrance Hall was not empty by any means, but with their friends gone, and Combeferre’s arm pressed against his, Courfeyrac felt as if the world had packed itself neatly away, like the fold up partitions of a stage set. 

“I think we should start with the East Wing,” Combeferre said after a stretch of silence, where Courfeyrac tried to pretend he wasn’t openly staring at him. Combeferre’s eyes flicked to his, the warm brown of his irises landing on his, and he realised he’d failed.

“Yeah.” He said distantly, and then shook himself, grinning, “A bit of late night Herbology is _definitely_ what I’d do if I were a rebellious second year who did not want to go to bed.”

Combeferre snorted, moving off towards the side corridor that headed towards the viaduct, towards the quieter corridors of the East Wing. Courfeyrac caught himself smiling, and hurried after him.

The double doors that led out onto the viaduct gave them a moment of shelter on opening, before the cold night air rushed forwards. The only light came from flickering torches set at intervals along the stone barrier that saved them from the cliffs below, which were glinting; wet from the rain of the day.

When Courfeyrac spoke, his breath pooled in the air before him.

“That was devious.” 

“What was?” Combeferre asked, and Courfeyrac was unsure whether it was complete innocence in his tone, or not. He looked over at Courfeyrac, eyebrows raised. 

“Conveniently getting R and Enjolras in detention together.” Courfeyrac continued, refusing to be sidetracked, and there was a definite smirk tugging on Combeferre’s lips now, no matter how much he was trying to hide it in the poor lighting of the viaduct, the wet stone shimmering beneath them. “Do you remember when you got me out of detention in third year by going away and learning all those old, ridiculous school rules that no one had thought of updating?”

“Nobody can receive detention on a waxing moon.” Combeferre recited, deadpan, “The 14th century headmasters were very clear about that.” 

“I think you caused a lot of revised policies that year.” Courfeyrac reflected, 

“Good.” Combeferre said, voicing what Courfeyrac had been thinking. 

They were halfway along the viaduct now, the East Wing of the castle looming up towards them; arched windows illuminated by still burning torches. Courfeyrac looked briefly to his right; to the sloping grounds of the castle, here dominated by the quietly rippling waters of the lake. The boathouse lay just in sight at the bottom of the craggy ravine; and his mind hit on slipping off the its deck in middle of the night, Grantaire’s dry laughter in his ears, and he couldn’t quite help grinning. 

Combeferre had been there then too, thoughtful and quiet as he’d looked up at the stars above them.

He was doing the same now, he saw, when he looked back to him. Looking up at the heavens that stretched clear and unpolluted high above them; taking in the stars and clusters of constellations Courfeyrac was sure he knew by heart and steady memory. It was that expression Courfeyrac had learnt and grown so fond of; a look of gentle appreciation and a cleverness that he had never quite come across in anybody else. 

“What?” Combeferre asked, and he was still looking skywards, but the corner of his lips twisted into a smile, sensing Courfeyrac’s gaze with an ease that startled him. 

He’d have told him if he could have found the words; if he could have been as eloquent as Jehan, or Combeferre himself. Told him that this warmth that was in his chest nowadays was one he could never take for granted, and that he hadn’t realised just how cold he’d felt before it had appeared there. How much it ached happily when he took his hand, or when he could turn unguarded eyes on him. Or kiss him on the way to the greenhouses as it began to rain; the smell of wet earth deep in his lungs.

But instead he just smiled, the skin at the corner of his eyes pinching against his lashes as it wrinkled, and it wasn’t enough, and he would find a way to voice it soon.

But Combeferre must have glimpsed some of it, because he smiled too, an open fondness in his soft brown eyes that did nothing to ease that aching warmth. And his hand found his as they reached the door that led into the East Wing; the mountains high over the stretch of lake that was glinting in moonlight made hesitant with low rain-clouds. 

Courfeyrac had never been much of a fan of prefect duty. But right now, Combeferre’s fingers warm about his as they headed down the quiet corridors of the castle; abandoned except for the murmuring portraits and occasional ghost, he felt that he wouldn’t mind doing it until the sun began to light the long mullioned windows, and walls covered in long-faded, ornate tapestries.

-

Detentions at Hogwarts were probably a deal more colourful than in Muggle schools, but Grantaire would rather have not acquired one on a wet Thursday evening when he would much rather be slumped on a settee in the Hufflepuff common room.

But flicking a steady supply of Pufferfish eyes at Bahorel throughout Potions had culminated in upsetting work ethics, and so now he was trudging down the cold stone steps towards the Dungeons after dinner, and trying not to think of soft cushions and a warm fire, or the lazy tap of raindrops at the window to the cosy common room. 

The door to the Potions classroom was already ajar when he reached the bottom of the spiralling stone steps, and he shouldered it open lamely, movements instilled with moping reluctance. The Pufferfish eyes hadn’t exactly _hurt_ anyone, after all. 

He had been expecting to see Professor Mordaunt sat at the desk at the far end of the room, nestled in a dark corner beside jars filled with inky, slimy looking contents.

He had _not_ been expecting to see Enjolras, sat at a desk before a pile of jars, stabbing what looked like a pile of mushy pale objects with alarming ferocity. 

The world tilted slightly.

“What.” He managed to hurl out the word as the door slammed shut, and Enjolras jumped, turning to face him with a slightly frazzled expression.

He looked, Grantaire thought with somewhere between wild pleasure and amusement, decidedly furious.

“What are you doing here?” He asked Grantaire, as if the answer was not within his grasp, and Grantaire rested his gaze on the blush tracking its way up his neck and to his cheeks, before flicking to the strands of curling hair that were spanning wildly towards the high, ventilated ceiling, as if hands had found their way raggedly through them numerous times.

He tried, exceptionally hard, to keep his mind focused.

“Believe it or not,” He said slowly, and hoisted his bag up slightly to provide himself with something to do before he could assume a normal facial expression, “I have landed my illustrious and hard-working self in detention this evening.” 

“ _Here_?”

Enjolras spoke as if the location of Grantaire’s inconvenient detention were a personal insult to him, and Grantaire tried hard not to feel rather stung.

“Pufferfish eyes disrupted the tranquillity of Potions this morning.” He said with his best attempt at smugness as his heart flopped limply about his ribcage. Enjolras snorted, and turned back to the contents on the table, which Grantaire forced his attention to, rather than dwell on Enjolras for any longer.

He abruptly regretted it.

“Are those _rat brains_?”

“I’m pickling them.” Enjolras grated, and Grantaire was spared deciding whether he found this painful or hilarious by the arrival of Professor Mordaunt, who swept into the room with a suddenness he found was really rather unfair in a teacher. 

“I want you to clean the pages of these textbooks,” She told him, waving her wand and causing a selection of copies of _Advanced Potion Making_ to scud out of the shelves lining the room and deposit themselves into Grantaire’s arms. His legs buckled somewhat. “If you run out, there are more in the cupboard. Stay here for one hour, please.” 

With that she left the room, leaving him with a staggering quantity of grubby textbooks, a pile of rat brains. And Enjolras. 

“This will be fun.” Grantaire said brightly after the silence had stretched itself out for a minute or two. Enjolras continued to pickle rat brains. 

“So, what did you do?” Grantaire valiantly tried again, still standing in the middle of the room, the pile of books in his arms, the weight of them beginning to make his fingers shake.

The question apparently did little to calm Enjolras down, as he let out a low noise that sounded bewilderingly like a hiss. Grantaire’s heartbeat leapt up to perform a tango. 

“This older student was harassing a second year.” Enjolras finally said shortly, lobbing a rat brain into one of the jars with impressive ferociousness, “So I hexed him. Apparently duelling in the corridors earns you detention, but verbal bullying deducts ten house points.” 

“That can’t be new information.” Grantaire commented, looking at Enjolras and hoping he was at least half successful in disguising the awe he felt as he sank into the seat two spaces away. Enjolras furiously handling rat brains seemed to require some semblance of distance.

“It’s _not_ ,” Enjolras grated, reaching for the next brain that was drying on a wad of towels. The smell was beginning to make Grantaire feel queasy as he deposited the pile of books before him, “But it’s still infuriating.”

Grantaire sat back in his chair, kicking up a leg to rest on the seat between them, and watched Enjolras pickling rat brains. 

It should probably have been disgusting, and it still very much _was_ , but Enjolras’s cheeks were flushed, heat spanning high along his cheekbones, and his jaw was gritted, eyes blazing.

And Grantaire’s insides didn’t feel too different from the rat brains bobbing up and down in the vinegar water. 

Enjolras finally seemed to notice that Grantaire was doing rather poorly at concealing his very obvious stare. He looked over at him, pausing. He was breathing fast, chest working quickly.

“What?” He demanded.

“Absolutely nothing.” Grantaire said quickly, rearranging his features and dropping his leg from the chair with lightning speed, forcing his attention to the textbooks before him. 

Apparently, he was an exceptionally good liar, because Enjolras continued to look at him silently for a time, before turning back to his work. 

And Grantaire resolutely tried to focus on the textbooks before him, unpeeling their pages and trying to ignore the rather disgusting noises Enjolras was causing next to him, accompanied by low huffs and sharp intakes of breath.

“Have you ever considered meditation?” He asked after a second.

“Be _quiet_.” 

Grantaire sniggered, and tried to unstick a page that looked as though it might have been spilled in cat vomit. 

Silence fell again, or as silent as it could be with Enjolras still moving beside him, and his heart thudded loudly in his ears.

But eventually some semblance of adaptation stole itself over him, and he remembered how to breathe slowly, as the cold of the dungeon became noticeable, sinking into his bones and the tips of his fingers. 

“So what did you do to him?” He asked after a time filled with the almost rhythmic noise of dry pages and objects hitting water.

“Sorry?”

“You hexed him.” Grantaire prompted, trying not to smirk, and failing extravagantly. “What happened to him?” 

Enjolras’s face flickered, and Grantaire realised a flash of humour had relaxed his jaw, a dark smile tugging on his lips briefly. He looked, Grantaire reflected, immensely proud of himself, and was struggling rather hard to hide it. 

“Broccoli started growing out of his ears.” He replied after a moment, and Grantaire absorbed that for a glorious minute before tipping his head back and laughing until his insides began to ache slightly.

He wasn’t sure whether it was from his jubilant reaction, or a resurgence of the memory, but after a second Enjolras began to laugh too. And Grantaire couldn’t remember if he’d heard Enjolras laugh like that before. He felt he should have recalled it, because he wasn’t sure how he could forget the sound; setting itself over Grantaire’s hearing like oozing warm honey. 

It set a giddiness to his head and hands, and when they finally stopped laughing, he realised his fingers were shaking slightly. 

“I’ll remember that for when the world’s offering up nothing but shit.” He told Enjolras, and his cheeks were aching. 

“Thank you.” Enjolras told him, a grin still tugging at his lips. 

“It’s kind of always, by the way.” Grantaire continued, prising apart two pages on the Babbling Beverage that looked beyond salvation. 

“It’s not though, is it.” Enjolras replied, amusement still lacing his voice, but perhaps there was a bit of sharpness to his tone. “Surely there’s good things.” 

“For me?” Grantaire mused, moving his wand over the left page to reveal the Babbling Beverage needed thee horned slugs. “Certainly. But it’s like an Impressionist painting, or something. Stand back and you see the full picture. Which is awful.” He finished cleaning the page and sat back in his seat to readjust his statement, “Unlike Impressionist paintings.”

Enjolras was shaking his head, and Grantaire was not in the mood to have another of their arguments right now. That giddy feeling of tentative happiness was still in his stomach. 

“Not a Caillebotte fan?” Grantaire asked him smugly.

“No,” Enjolras said, “Well, yes. I mean, I don’t know his work. But we do agree that the world is awful place for so many people, it’s just a shame that you refuse to believe anything can be done about it.” 

“Rooftops under snow is my favourite.” Grantaire offered, rocking back on the chair legs as he looked across at Enjolras. He was still determinedly, and slowly, picking rat brains. He had to admire the dedication. But that’s who Enjolras was he supposed. Nothing if not dedicated. “And it’s nothing to say you don’t try to change that. I’m surprised you haven’t given up yet. I’m a lot cause, Enjolras.”

He’d spoken jokingly, even if the words skimmed over deep crevasses of a truth he didn’t really want to face. A sickening and consuming fear that Enjolras maybe would give up, and turn away from him. 

“Nobody's a lot cause.” Enjolras said sharply. And then a grin flashed briefly across his face. Grantaire set his chair back on the ground for his own safety, “Even if they’re resolutely determined to mock me at every opportunity.” 

“Well, it’s not like you don’t bite back.” Grantaire snorted.

“I don’t mean to. Not always,” Enjolras sighed, and he flashed him a quick glance before returning to his work, “It’s just that you make me feel so-”

“Adequate?” Grantaire supplied, cutting him off with a humourless smirk.

“No, I-”

“Clever?”

“ _No-_ ”

“ _Queasy_?”

“Nervous.” Enjolras snapped. And the word rung about the stone walls of the dungeon, bouncing off the glinting jars, the stacked textbooks and the empty cauldrons that had a distinctly sulphuric odour about them still. 

Grantaire gaped slightly, and Enjolras turned scarlet. 

He abruptly wondered why anyone had ever said breathing was an easy thing. 

“ _Nervous_?” He repeated before he could stop himself, and he hadn’t realised he had begun to smile, one that might have been a smirk, as his heart struck up a new, relentless rhythm.

“Yes.” Enjolras said resolutely, cheeks growing redder by the minute, and Grantaire had a brief moment where his feverish mind wondered why he hadn’t tried to deny it. But he supposed Enjolras was never particularly good at hiding his opinion on things. If Grantaire made him feel nervous ( _nervous_ his mind thudded) then he was not going to attempt to refute that after admission. 

“I make you feel nervous?” He wasn’t sure if he was pushing it, if this bizarre embarrassment that was clear on Enjolras’s face was some odd limbo that was about to break itself back into normality, and Enjolras would snap at him again. He was baiting him slightly, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to stop.

“That’s what I said.” Enjolras replied firmly, and he was scowling, but he didn’t seem angry.

“ _Why_?” Grantaire asked, the word slipping out his mouth unguardedly. And his mind was working furtively, new possibilities for why Enjolras felt _nervous_ around him. He had thought their disagreements and constant waspishness had taken place long enough for it to settle into comfortable pattern. He had thought that Christmas Day kiss had settled itself into rapid, regrettable memory. 

He tried not to dwell on that kiss. 

Enjolras heaved a breath through his nose, as if the question was causing him difficulties. 

“Because,” He began, heaving the word out as if it were obvious, as if it was a struggle to voice it, “You’re always so quick. And you’re clever. And funny. And-” He trailed off, as if he’d run out of adjectives to describe whatever Grantaire apparently was that made him feel nervous. 

Grantaire bit the inside of his cheek as he absorbed that, wondering exactly what that rush of heat beneath his skin stemmed from, trying to decide between irritation and that traitorous flood of sickening pleasure. 

“I’m quick at being a _dick_.” He finally said, and Enjolras hadn’t looked at him this whole time, was resolutely staring down a jar of pickled rat brains. “But _wow_ ,” He continued flatly, struggling to keep the acidity from his tone rather feebly, “Clever and funny. What wonderful revelations.”

“I’ve pissed you off.” Enjolras commented and Grantaire snorted so loudly he hurt his throat slightly. 

“Five points to Slytherin.” 

“I wasn’t saying it to appease you, Grantaire,” Enjolras said softly, and that was strange Grantaire thought, through that ridiculous stem of warmth that came from hearing his name come from Enjolras’s mouth. Strange that he wasn’t rising to Grantaire’s tone, and strange that he turned now to look at him, without any trace of frustration in his eyes."You asked me.” His mouth twisted, into some kind of pained humour, “And I’m trying to answer.” 

Grantaire stared at him, trying to comprehend, forcing his mind to stay resolutely focused, when it was hurtling off in spinning directions like an exploded firework; tracking brightness into the night before fading once more. 

“Why does that make you nervous?” He finally asked weakly. 

Nervous was a feeling that he felt should belong to him, not someone like Enjolras. Someone resolute and determined, who seemed only to move forwards. It was Grantaire who stumbled in his wake; always set somehow, uneasy and dizzy yet stable when beside him. He was the one whose hands shook, whose legs twitched when Enjolras was next to him, the one who let words leapt unbidden from his mouth before he’d given thought to them.

He was the one who couldn’t sleep at night from the chaos in his head. And Enjolras was a part of that medley of thoughts; a small segment of the things that kept him up at night. _He_ was the one who had been awake for far longer than he could count. 

Enjolras was looking at him again now, and a small pucker had lined itself between his brows. His blue eyes, flecked with grey, now pooled with something that looked inexplicably and painfully sad. 

And the door to the classroom opened.

“Hour’s up.” Professor Mordaunt’s voice said, cutting brisk across Grantaire’s ears like a light being switched on suddenly; grating and unpleasant after this weird, warm lull that had set Grantaire’s heartbeat erratic. “You may both go. Leave the books and the brains on the shelf over there, please.”

Wordlessly, Grantaire and Enjolras got to their feet, chairs grating against the flagstones, moving off to put everything on the shelves she had indicated. 

And then they were out in the cold expanse of the corridor again, heading towards the spiralling staircase that led back to the warm upper floors, silence crushing the air. Until Grantaire realised that Enjolras wasn’t heading to the upper floors.

“My common room’s down there,” Enjolras said quietly, and Grantaire felt a rush of movement by his arm, but when he looked down, Enjolras’s hands were at his side.

“Right.” Grantaire said blankly, and his mind was still tangled back in that classroom, caught in the web that had strung itself up when Enjolras had told Grantaire he was clever, and funny, and other things he couldn’t voice. And that he made him nervous. He tried to force some semblance of focus. “Yeah, you better scrub off that brainy smell.” 

A small smile pushed its way onto Enjolras’s lips, and Grantaire tried to remember when it was exactly that he’d started to receive them.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Enjolras said, and he’d made to turn away, but a surge of something powered itself through Grantaire’s mind, and his fingers whipped up to lightly press on Enjolras’s upper arm.

He opened his mouth, a rush of breath accompanying the movement, and Enjolras looked at him questioningly.

“You make me feel pretty nervous too.” Grantaire heard himself say. And it resonated jarringly, inelegantly, about that corridor, deserted except for glinting suits of armour that Bahorel had used to knock over whilst waiting outside for Potions. 

It resonated jarringly, and Grantaire’s throat felt tight. 

And Enjolras hesitated for a moment, and then his fingers came up, slowly, and pressed gently against the hand Grantaire had rested on him. His fingertips grazed across his knuckles, and rested warm against his skin.

He squeezed his hand, quickly, and released him.

“Goodnight, Grantaire.” He said, and his voice was oddly husky.

Grantaire’s arm flopped limply to his side, and he watched Enjolras stand there for a brief second, eyes on his as if he were drinking in Grantaire’s expression. And then he’d turned and was walking along the corridor, towards the Slytherin Common room. 

And Grantaire stood there until his fingertips grew cold; the warmth of Enjolras’s brief touch finally leaving his skin in the chilly air of the lower levels of the castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> maaaaaaaan sorry this is taking me way longer than it probably should but THANKS FOR STICKING WITH ME !!  
> as ever- [I'm here on tumblr ](icarus-drunk.tumblr.com)


	14. summer moves forward slowly, and primroses giggle and blow kisses

Spring swept over the castle with an ease that seemed akin to a moving stage set; wooden rain clouds being rolled away into the wings to leave daffodils sprouting about the Stone Circle, and leaving birds to sing longer into the clear blue mornings.

It strung an odd lightness about Grantaire’s heart; a brightness that felt matched by the primroses and daffodils that spouted about the grounds and by the moss covered trees at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. 

“Have you spoken to Enjolras recently?” Combeferre asked him, straight from the blue, on a Tuesday morning when they were down at the greenhouses; a light April shower drumming lightly on the glass roof above them.

Grantaire jerked at the sudden question, drew back his elbow and knocked the empty terracotta pot from the desk. It fell to the floor and smashed. The primroses he had been re-potting sniggered happily at the show. 

“Pardon?” He asked, bewilderment and defensiveness leaping upwards to string at his throat and tighten his chest.

Combeferre looked calm though, gloved hands gently transferring a bunch of waving primroses to the new, larger pot beneath him. His ochre coloured smock was streaked in dirt. Grantaire had failed to clean his own since the fourth year. Something uncomfortably similar in consistency to manure had been spilled down one side since that time. 

Combeferre looked up, surprised as the pot broke, and Grantaire was glad of the opportunity to avoid his gaze as he ducked to retrieve it. 

The question caught him unguarded and strangely guilty, as if Combeferre had spoken in an accusing tone. 

“He seemed a little concerned about the essay you’ve been set for History of Magic.” Combeferre continued, and he voiced it as a tentative question, which ascertained that Grantaire had absolutely _not_ been casual in his response. From the floor, strewn with soil, he felt a lurch of nausea that came from a weird relief and a sudden, crippling panic. 

“Right,” He said, and his voice leapt about in pitch slightly. He’d delayed at shoe height long enough, and he reluctantly straightened and returned the broken pot to the table, flicking his wand to repair it. Shards of broken terracotta lightly laced itself back together. “It’s a dick of an essay alright.” 

“I see.” 

Combeferre had perfected that tone that remained both utterly unconvinced, and somewhat amused, Grantaire reflected. He shot him a quick look and met his brown eyes, and a raised eyebrow. 

“Is anyone else's primroses blowing raspberries at them?” Courfeyrac asked, and he rejoined their table, holding his pot of primroses at arms length, looking concerned. 

“Mine’s reciting Tacitus’s _Annals._ ” Grantaire informed him promptly, and Courfeyrac flicked some soil in his direction. Courfeyrac’s arrival sufficiently stemmed the odd line of questioning Grantaire suddenly felt he was under, as Combeferre turned his eyes on Courfeyrac. Besotted boyfriends were apparently not useless to anyone, after all. 

The rain above them petered out with a quietness that matched its arrival, and dregs of sunlight began to filter down through the stained glass. Grantaire turned his attention back to the bunch of primroses he had been ready to replant before Combeferre’s enquiry. They giggled as he transferred them to the new pot. 

His heart should not still be beating so fast, he told himself. His hands shouldn’t be feeling so hot; that surge of odd guiltiness waving through him almost sickening. He wasn’t even sure what he had to feel guilty about, as if that kiss at Christmas had meant anything to Enjolras, or their exchanges had been something more than hesitant glances and words that seemed to be verging on something unspoken, that sent some uneasy panic about him. As if Enjolras telling him he made him nervous meant the thing that Grantaire so hopelessly and desperately wished it did. 

He’d never fully considered how obvious he might appear, in spite of every defence he’d strung up where Enjolras had been concerned. The thought chilled him.

The bell rang five minutes later, as he was distractedly pressing the last group of primroses into their new pot. One of them sent a wet, kissing noise in his directin. His mind was too crammed with self-doubt and uneasiness to really spare much thought for the logistics behind it. 

The walk up to the castle for break consisted of Feuilly entertaining them with his rendition of how Bahorel had earned his latest detention. Grantaire heard half of it, pulling a smile onto his face and mostly sure he would have found it as amusing as the others if his mind hadn’t slipped out of paying attention, hurtling ahead to the castle, and the courtyard where Enjolras would be waiting with the rest of those that had just had a free period.

It was the first time that year that the sun had been laced with a semblance of warmth; pale light stretching across a scrubbed blue sky in a muted echo of the coming summer, and Grantaire found himself wishing for the cold bitter winds that had just left them, just to freeze this sickening, nervous feeling that was flopping about his body. 

Somehow, the knowledge that he’d left his essay for Charms back in the common room wormed its way between the medley of thoughts. 

They came back into the castle at the East Wing, near the Transfiguration Corridor, and it was with a bizarre kind of disappointment that Grantaire surrendered the possibility of seeing Enjolras at the break, as he parted from Feuilly, Musichetta, Courfeyrac and Combeferre, and ducked through the tapestry of Ptolemy Soter that wended a faithful shortcut towards the common room. 

It opened out near the middle courtyard, on a quiet, long stretch of corridor framed on one side by high, long windows mullioned by lead. Grantaire brushed the faded tapestry aside, cobwebs dusting his hair and settling up his nose, sending a cautious look over towards his left, in case Mrs Norris was stalking about nearby. 

The suit of armour on his right gave him a clunking salute as he walked past it and he shot it a questioning look. It naturally did not elaborate. 

A low buzz filled the air, coming from the streams of students nearby; on the floors above or the corridors spanning on from this one, or in the moss covered courtyard just past the long windows. The noise wasn’t unpleasant, but it set that distracted edginess to him, the kind that had been plaguing him of late. By nothing like coincidence, it had been strung about him since that detention with Enjolras, setting some kind of giddy anticipation and fear about him. 

That silent, cobwebbed passageway had been oddly soothing, and he wondered whether he could head back to it later, and walk through it at a slower pace; the dinginess of the windowless walls calming his tired eyes.

There was a staircase spiralling upwards to his right, to the floor above him. Through it, drifted the inaudible words of a raised voice, carrying through the sunlit air with a cutting efficiency that made Grantaire’s stomach feel like it had missed a step somewhere.

He’d somehow found himself on a path to avoid the courtyard today, allowing that unforgiving, powerful consideration of Enjolras' presence there to pin down his mind roughly. The thought of Enjolras in that courtyard, turning to look at him with an expression Grantaire couldn’t envisage. The same expression as ever perhaps, that carefully controlled one that seemed to front some deep exasperation. Or perhaps something warmer, one that caused his lips to smile, like the last time they’d spoken together. 

He wasn’t sure which he was most afraid of. So perhaps better to face the possibility of neither.

But that raised voice seemed to suggest that Enjolras was _not_ exactly where Grantaire had fully expected him to be. 

He felt rather put out at himself for making such a steadied assumption. He should really know the universe better by now. 

He eyed the staircase for a quick, fleeting second, as his heart leapt up a pace that set the nauseous feeling back, somewhere in his throat. 

The second passed, and he headed up the stone steps after that hesitation, as if he would ever have made any other decision. 

The staircase took him up to the second floor, out onto a corridor that looked over the sloping roof, where weeds were sprouting flowers in the budding spring air. 

The corridor was lined with a mass collection of portraits, stained with age to tallow-like shades, their occupants restless and fidgety, or sleeping propped against their frames, waiting for a rush of students to call down to.

And Enjolras was stood before one of them, face set like marble, with every air of confrontation lacing his posture.

The cause of the shouting was apparent. But Grantaire was still a little questioning about its necessity. 

Enjolras appeared to realise he had company. 

He turned his head to stare down the corridor, and Grantaire became briefly entangled in the cold ferocity of his expression. Not the one that he used for Grantaire, worn for some tired kind of petty argument, but the one he reserved for calculated, devastating debate. 

Sometimes, he was rather concerned for himself that it was this expression that made his heart flipflop back down to the first floor, leaving him in some parody of a small, limp sea creature that had washed up on the shore. 

The dust still settled up his nose tickled slightly, and Enjolras kept staring at him.

He couldn’t think of anything else to do, so he sneezed loudly. 

“What are you doing here?” Enjolras asked after another second, and Grantaire felt his legs release him, and he began to walk slowly towards him, crossing the twenty or so metres with a sluggishness he ascribed to his inside still being flung somewhere near his feet. 

“I go to school here.” Grantaire said with a casual brightness he did not feel, sinking his hands into the pockets of his robes as he came to a halt about a metre or so before Enjolras, flicking a quick glimpse to a rather flustered looking portrait of an old wizard. “Are you…arguing with a portrait?”

“He’s bigoted.” Enjolras snapped. 

“It’s kinda to be expected,” Grantaire mused, sending the portrait a ruminative glance, “Being a crusty old man who's been living in a painting since 1640.”

“1590, young man.” The portrait sniffed. 

“You kind of didn’t change my point.” Grantaire informed him, and Enjolras emitted a low breath of humour. It took Grantaire aback slightly, and he turned to look at him. 

He still looked tired. The kind of tired that other people wore like another item of clothing, but one that Enjolras wore like a weapon. Defensiveness stiffened his posture and set coldness in his gaze, above the shadows that were laced under his pale lashes. 

He caught Grantaire’s eye, and for some inexplicable reason, his stance relaxed slightly. 

“I’ve had a bad day.” He said, as if Grantaire had asked, which he wished he’d had to courage to. 

With that, he angled away slightly, beginning to tread slowly in the direction of the far end of the corridor, where a high window looked out onto the lake glinting in hesitant spring sunshine. 

“Come back and argue, you whippersnapper!” The portrait called after him. 

“So I see.” Grantaire said, and he followed Enjolras, uncertain as that sunlight, unsure if he was welcome; a feeling that plagued him with everyone, and especially with the person who was walking before him, tired and resolute and irate. He settled for lapsing into silence again, falling into pace behind him, watching the sunlight play at the edges of his hair. 

The walls along this corridor were papered in a faded green, drawn vines spiralling in dulled gold down to the skirting boards and beneath hanging tapestries. His skin felt warm along here, the light holding a heat to it that he’d really missed fervently these past few months. 

“How was Herbology?” Enjolras asked in a voice that was quieter than the intense tone he’d been speaking with a second ago. 

Grantaire felt rather amused at the question, and he snorted as Enjolras looked back at him. 

“How are Combeferre, Coufeyrac and you _that_ interlinked that you know what lesson they just had-”

“No,” Enjolras said, and he blushed for some reason, “I mean-well. There’s soil in your hair.”

“Oh.” 

Enjolras looked away again and Grantaire sent a quick hand to his hair and a sarcastic thanks towards the heavens. He watched the back of Enjolras’s head a time, until they were nearing the large window, then let what had sprung onto his mind be voiced with a forced casualness. 

“Combeferre seemed to think you were struggling to write about the fifteenth century decline of court wizards.” 

Enjolras paused slightly, and then turned to look back at him, frowning slightly. His pace slowed, and he fell into step beside Grantaire.

“He said that?” 

“Mmm.” Grantaire continued. “But it sounded more like he was the paternal teacher in the playground trying to get two troublesome six year olds to be friends.”

“Oh.” Enjolras said, and lapsed into a silence that seemed contemplative as they rounded the corner and walked onwards along the stretch of sunlit hallway; dust motes filtering through the air. He drew in a hesitant breath then said,

“I’m not sure what that was about.”

“Mmm.” Grantaire tried to say again, except it got stuck slightly in his throat, any attempt at lightheartedness curdling like thick custard. He was suddenly overly aware of how it was just him and Enjolras in this corridor; him, Enjolras, and snoring portraits. 

They walked on, silent and slowly and Grantaire sent a desperate look towards the end of the corridor. It was a good hundred metres away. For one of the first times, he bemoaned being educated in a _fucking castle._

“I don’t dislike you.” Enjolras suddenly blurted, with a suddenness and ferocity that made Grantaire jump and halt in his tracks. 

“I..what?” He asked blankly, and Enjolras turned to fix him with a bizarrely alarmed look, as if he hadn’t quite thought the words through and they’d escaped against his will. The portraits nearby had woken up, one of them was clutching her heart in alarm. 

Heat rushed to Enjolras’s cheeks, and he looked away, eyes flicking to somewhere beyond Grantaire’s shoulder, at the thin pane of the windows, perhaps. 

Grantaire stared at him, and tried to locate an answer that didn’t involve hysterical laughter. Nothing was particularly forthcoming, so he settled for continued staring. 

Enjolras’s eyes flicked over to his once more. His brows were lowered; skin between them crumpled into some intense scowl that seemed born of determination rather than any kind of anger. 

“I didn’t mean to say it like that.” He said quietly, and Grantaire’s eyes flicked over to the portrait by Enjolras’s shoulder. He looked equally bewildered. Enjolras spoke again before Grantaire could interject. “I meant, that is, what I’m trying to say, is that I don’t feel like a six year old in a playground.” 

“I see.” Grantaire said, which he very much didn’t. His mind felt heavy, the stirrings of a headache beginning to tug at the edges of his head, and he wondered why he hadn’t forced his legs to tread onwards on the level below, and left Enjolras to his shouting match with a four hundred year old painting. But things had moved themselves lately; like the curling tendrils of the clematis that clustered about the windows below them. Things had been growing and changing, and Enjolras smiled at him when he met his eye recently, and the lengths of conversations had grown, almost devoid of cold exchanges. And it was a tentative, fragile growing thing, but it was one that Grantaire wanted to protect more than anything else; as if he were standing in a gale with his hands cupped about it. 

And he’d never trusted himself less. 

Enjolras had paused, hesitation still painted across his features and Grantaire looked up at him, and wondered fervently what someone in possession of tranquillity would say now. 

The painting behind him was staring.

“Let’s walk this way a bit.” He muttered, and his hand came out to hover somewhere near Enjolras’s arm, as he went to head further along the corridor, to where the portraits were replaced with faded tapestries. Enjolras’s eyelashes flashed fair against his skin as he looked down at the point of almost contact, and he wordlessly followed him. 

He’d half hoped the ability to say something would work its way into his mind with a few steps, but as they moved slowly to a small alcove framed by the long windows to their left, Grantaire found his mind unyieldingly blank. His skin felt hot, and his throat was tight, and he tried to calmly absorb the knowledge that Enjolras didn’t consider him someone he was continually at loggerheads with as something that was merely worth calm absorption. 

His step faltered, and he sank back to stand in the alcove; pressing his head against the thin glass pane. It was cool against his skin, and it brought back some semblance of normality to his posture, and his expression. At least he was fairly sure. 

“That’s good.” He finally said lamely.

Enjolras looked rather perturbed at the response, and Grantaire looked away from him, sending a glance out at the grounds laid pale orange in the sunlight that was staining the glass. 

Here, against the window, the sunlight was warm on his skin. He hadn’t felt that since October. It was odd how much he had missed it. 

An owl swooped low over the grounds, spanning out towards the Forbidden Forest; wings beating and gleaming in the sunlight. 

Summer would soon be here, he hoped; warming the blossom that had sprouted on the trees, and inviting them out into the grounds during breaks. But it also meant the approach of July, when they’d take the winding train back to London. He tried not to dwell on that. 

“Are you okay, Grantaire?”

The question was unexpected, and perhaps that was why Grantaire let that hollow, bitter laugh escape his lips, resting his head back against the window pane to stare up through his lashes at Enjolras. 

“ _That’s_ a question.” He said, the words slipping past him through a weak smirk. “I mean, I’m not _dying_ or anything.” 

“That’s not what I meant.” Enjolras said brusquely, and Grantaire couldn’t help snorting, because of _course_ they were going to argue about this. 

“I was aware.” He said, driving his hands into the pockets of his robes. The fabric clenched about his fingers. 

“I know what I just said wasn’t the most eloquent thing-” Enjolras began hesitantly, but Grantaire cut him off as he disentangled a hand from his pocket to run it through his hair. 

“It’s not that-”

“Then what is it then?”

His head hit against the pane again, and he hadn’t realised he’d moved forwards from it. Enjolras was looking at him, he thought dully, looking at him as if he was some unfathomable being and for one of the first times Grantaire wished he wouldn’t bother. 

Because he wasn’t sure what this feeling was; this sentiment that had crept over him like shade; dark hues rippling over him and setting him in dull light. 

Perhaps it was the terrifying easiness of his encounters with Enjolras since that detention; when for some reason he’d felt as if they’d settled on similar levels that saw some kind of mutual feeling, and maybe he’d been made giddy with the idea- the far-flung idea- that being able to make Enjolras feel nervous meant something. And now he had Enjolras before him, telling him lightly and casually that he didn’t dislike him, as if that option had been a recent one, and he was just as surprised at it. 

And maybe it was Combeferre, looking at him with something that seemed like knowledge and _knowing_ , as if every defence Grantaire had ever hurled up about himself had staggered and crashed to the ground faster than rockfall. 

And it was that kiss in an alcove so similar to this, on Christmas Day evening with the soft glow of fairylights clashing against his eyelashes as Enjolras drew closer. 

It was all of those things, and to begin to put them into words was too much on its own, but to voice it before Enjolras, who was standing and watching him with a quiet patience he could not endure was an impossibility.

“It’s nothing.” He said, and his voice came dull and flat even to his own ears.

“It’s _not_.” Enjolras said, with the same ferocity of earlier, and he couldn’t be sure whether it was frustration at himself, or Enjolras’s own lack of understanding, and Grantaire wondered if two people could be so perplexed by one another, “Is it something I’ve done? Is-”

“ _No_.” Grantaire said with a firmness he was rather impressed with, and that self-pride vanished instantly as Enjolras took a frustrated step towards him, and he brought himself a metre’s distance from the hunched, odd and defensive stand Grantaire had assumed against the nearest stretch of window. And something in the region of his chest leapt upwards, effervescent in his throat. “Stop attacking me with this.”

Enjolras blinked at that, and dropped his gaze from Grantaire’s face, his glance hovering briefly, unseeingly, at Grantaire’s shoulder. Then, imperceptibly, he gave his head a quick shake. 

“You’re right,” He said, and his tone was softer now, quiet in the empty space of that hallway, “I’m sorry. It’s just-” He cut himself off, and ran a quick hand over his face, before dropping his gaze back to Grantaire, fixing him with a look of intensity that he seemed to have draped upon himself. “ _I’m_ not okay.” 

Grantaire looked at him. Looked at Enjolras, standing before him, a tenseness wound about his limbs; drawing his shoulders sharp and level. He was close, closer than Grantaire thought he had been when they’d drawn to a jilted stop here, and that knowledge set his skin on edge; hot and feverish. And his words washed over him like an electrical current.

“What?” He said blankly, tersely, his mind thudding dully as he tried to absorb that. Enjolras was still looking at him, and as he spoke a flicker of something like unease settled fleetingly about his face, before disappearing under a mask of fresh determination. It was odd, Grantaire’s mind thrust forth the thought, odd at how important this seemed, in spite of how little he could grasp what was going on. Perhaps that’s why his fingernails were digging into the skin of his palms. 

“I’m not okay.” Enjolras repeated, with a slow breath that rose his chest and stirred the air between them. “And I haven’t been since Christmas.”

“Christmas?” Grantaire interjected weakly, and his mind felt dizzy, some lurch of nausea pounding its way about his veins, and a sudden horror reared itself upwards like some creature emerging slimy and wet from dark ocean depths. “If I make you uncomfortable why didn’t you just say-”

“I like you.” Enjolras interrupted, and the suddenness with which he said it, and the intensity of his tone made Grantaire think that he hadn’t heard anything of what he’d just said, as if the words were ones he’d wanted to voice for a long while, and a second of courage had appeared and he’d seized it before it had dissipated.

And then he fully registered what Enjolras had said.

“What?” He said blankly. 

Enjolras was breathing heavily still, and he was still studying Grantaire, eyes searching for something in his face that Grantaire was not sure he was succeeding in locating. At Grantaire’s words his expression shifted slightly, into something still lined with determination, but somehow softer. 

“I like you,” He said again, in a voice far less aggressive, that fell quieter on the sunlit air, “I’ve liked you for a very long time. And I didn’t quite realise until Christmas.”

He paused, and Grantaire supposed that would be when he said something. But the ability to form coherent words had somehow slipped away from him. Instead he stood there, and stared at Enjolras, who seemed to be trapped in some strange paradox of seeming calmer but tenser by the second.

“And I couldn’t tell you,” He continued, eyes flicking down to rest unseeingly on Grantaire’s collar, “Not after that kiss. I felt sure you hated me, and then we avoided each other for so long-” He broke himself off, and raised a hesitant hand to tuck a curl over his ear. Grantaire traced the movement with steady eyes; a normal, calm movement thrown in amongst a hurricane of admission that had pounded an empty, silent kind of shock in his head.

“And recently- I don’t know, things seemed different between us.” Enjolras looked back at him, something questioning in his glance, “And I started thinking that maybe you didn’t dislike me as much as I thought you did.” He sighed, a sigh that was tired and heay, and one that Grantaire had often felt pulling at his own chest. Enjolras’s lips cured into a small, bitter smile; one that did not suit his face. “This doesn’t have to be awkward. I mean, I won’t mention it again.” 

“Shut up.” Grantaire said suddenly, with a strength that surprised himself. Enjolras fixed a proper look on him at that, confusion lighting his face. The outbreak stopped the jilted, blank stemming of his collection of words, and Grantaire scrubbed a hand over his face as he dropped his gaze from Enjolras, and Enjolras had had the courage to _look_ at him whilst he told him these things, but Grantaire found he couldn’t do it, _couldn’t_ reveal the thoughts and feelings that had been packed so tightly in his heart for so long that it caused physical pain. 

“I…really don’t hate you.” He said in a strangled kind of tone, and it was almost amusing, to say those words out loud, words so ridiculously far from the truth; a truth that had set him in endless nights and spiralling disappointments masked by strained smiles. “I don’t hate you at all.”

It was like standing on the edge of a ravine and knowing he had to jump. _Knowing_ he had to jump. And his legs were frozen on the clifftop, refusing to move as his heart thudded in his chest. 

Enjolras was looking at him, lips slightly parted, as if wanting to speak, but somehow sensing the weight that was dragging Grantaire into this hesitation, too scared to escape it. 

And then from nowhere, that rush of bravery that had seemingly pushed Enjolras forwards earlier seemed to pulse along with his own blood, and he jumped.

“I’ve always liked you.” He informed the floor. “Since we first met.”

He couldn’t bring himself to watch Enjolras’s expression, and his head felt drunk and heavy and dizzy with Enjolras’s words, still slipping over his mind again and again, of him saying he liked him, of him saying he’d liked him for a long time.

And he felt exposed now, having laid a tenth of what he felt out on the quiet air of this abandoned corridor, as if he’d bared his throat to a sharp knife. 

“Really?” Enjolras asked. And he didn’t voice it accusingly, or blankly, but in a hushed tone that seemed tipped with quiet hope. 

And Grantaire’s chest heaved in a breathless gasp of laughter at that, and wondered how to describe the tip of a deep iceberg. 

“Since we first met.” He finally said again, and it almost hurt to speak any louder than a whisper. “From the first second.” 

He had so many other things to say, things he’d wanted to say for so long that now seemed ready to be spoken, but he couldn’t do it. He could only stand there in that quiet corridor, with Enjolras breathing softly a metre away, and Grantaire being too scared to look into his eyes. 

Enjolras was only a metre away, so when he moved forwards the accompanying trip of heartbeat that sprung up in Grantaire’s chest was not unexpected. But then Enjolras was cautiously and gently taking his hand in his, and that certainly _was_ unexpected, and his brain slumped into a strange kind of whirring blankness. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t work this out sooner.” Enjolras said quietly, “There’s an awful lot I don’t understand.”

“I’m with you on that.” Grantaire had meant to say that casually, but it tripped from his lips ragged and breathless, and his mind sprang back into life; confused and reeling and trying to register than Enjolras was touching him, fingers gentle and warm and soft as they clasped his. 

“You don’t hate me?” Enjolras said in a dazed kind of voice, and his index finger was tracing slowly, unconsciously over one of Grantaire’s knuckles, and Grantaire tried to select an answer through his confounded mind, trying to ignore the way his hands were shaking.

“You don’t hate _me_?” He said instead, his breath of laughter coming out rough and loud.

Enjolras made a strangled noise low in his throat, and without warning he sat down on the low alcove that ran about the window. He pulled Grantaire down with him, intentionally or not, and Grantaire had never been more thankful for something. His limbs felt numb, as if he’d been hit by a stunning spell. 

He took a moment to realise Enjolras’s hands were shaking too. 

“This is a bit of a mess.” Enjolras breathed, and he was smiling slightly, something erratic and light flickering about his face, as if he were on edge, almost as if he were cautious and hesitant in a way Grantaire had never expected it possible for him to be. His own heart was beating limply about his ribcage, his palms hot. He became vaguely aware of his legs, drumming upwards and hitting downwards on the stone beneath them; some restless, agitated movement he couldn’t control any more than the odd sparks of fevered rushing of his head, followed by streaks of blankness.

“'A bit.'” Grantaire eachoed in a high, strangled tone, “That’s got to be the most optimistic thing you’ve come out with. And I’ve heard a lot from you.”

Enjolras snorted, and then slowly, he was letting go of Grantaire’s hand, and fixing his eyes on Grantaire; pinning him to stillness.

And he watched blankly as Enjolras moved his hand forwards, his fingers touching lightly at the curls of his hair; skin brushing soft against his cheek. And if Grantaire thought about it, he’d have expected that erratic, frantic racing of his heart to spark brighter and more feverish than before. But sitting here now, taking in Enjolras before him; taking in the pale curve of his lashes, the arch of his lips, the astral like scattering of freckles about his cheeks, he didn’t feel that. He felt bizarrely peaceful, like a calm evening tide rushing up onto the soft sand of the shore; some muted, quiet feeling he felt might soon dissipate.

And then Enjolras smiled at him, a slow, hesitant smile that slowly pulled at the corner of his lips. 

And it felt as warm as the sunlight that was falling on the pane of the window; filtering through the glass to light on dust motes and land on Grantaire’s tired skin. 

And his head was still reeling, still intoxicated and frenzied by Enjolras’s proximity, by his words, and by his inability to yet process what the past five minutes had brought forwards like a rapid spring storm. And it would catch up with him later, and when it did the words would find themselves.

But for now he let a rush of bizarre happiness wash over him, one that was complete and hesitant but as warm as that late spring sunshine.

-

Marius’s latest unintentional daydream was cut abruptly short when the freezing charm Courfeyrac had been practising hit him on the arm.

“I’m _sorry_ ,” Courfeyrac enthused as Marius gave a yelp, the odd, tingling sensation of instantaneous chill seeping over his hand instantly. 

“That was definitely _not_ a mending charm.” Combeferre chastised lightly, looking up from the terracotta plant pots they were shattering then assembling back together in pairs. Marius was fairly sure Combeferre’s had started off the class in worse shape than it was now. He certainly didn’t remember his having hieroglyphs papered neatly about its rim. 

“I got bored,” Courfeyrac fretted, patting Marius’s hand as if that would dismiss the current frostbite that was cramping Marius’s fingers.

“That wasn’t _my_ fault.” Marius told him, and on his left, Cosette began to snigger quietly. Any potential for sulking evaporated when she leaned over and took his hand in hers, touching her wand feather-light against his skin and sending a wash of warmth along his fingers.

“There,” She said, and Marius caught her eye, his mind stumbling momentarily as she held his gaze, a smile still playing on her lips. He wondered abruptly how he’d got this lucky, how the universe had finally conspired to send him something, _someone_ , who felt like a rush of light and warmth after sitting for a long time in the dark and cold. He often felt as if he were tripping in Cosette’s wake; stumbling gracelessly after her, and it was a feeling he could live with forever.

“-Maybe gesticulate your wand at an inanimate object.” Combeferre was telling Courfeyrac, and the fondness was clear in his tone without Marius needing to glance over at the small smile he was wearing. Courfeyrac made a show of rolling his eyes, but the grin on his lips was hard to hide.

“Or maybe at someone who says the word ‘gesticulate’.”

Two rows before them, Enjolras and Grantaire were practising the mending charm on the same plant pot. They’d both arrived late to Charms that afternoon, and had been strangely absent from the Great Hall at lunchtime. Marius hadn’t thought it the wisest idea for them to be paired together, but today they seemed relatively calm; arms brushing as they leant over the desk. He’d noticed Courfeyrac sending them glances every few minutes, glances that were interspersed with exchanged looks at Combeferre.

“They’re being _friendly_.” Musichetta had stage whispered about fifteen minutes ago, leaning around Bossuet to send Combeferre and Courfeyrac a look that plainly seemed to be expecting some form of explanation. 

Friendly would not have been the word Marius would have selected, but he regarded them now; their heads bent forwards, Grantaire’s leg jogging a random rhythm, and thought that if this was a change, then it was a good one. 

A bright bird landed on the windowsill on Cosette’s other side, a flurry of bright yellow wings dragging Marius’s gaze from the occupants of the classroom. Cosette made a small noise of amusement, turning from her work to look at it. Owls were such frequent inhabitants of the sky here Marius often forgot other birds flitted about the castle towers too. 

“It’s a yellowhammer,” Combeferre said, leaning forwards over his desk to get a better look. His plant pot shuffled backwards sulkily. “It’s here early this year. They're usually summer visitors.”

“My father told me about them,” Cosette smiled, and she sent Marius a glance over her shoulder, “Their call sounds like they’re saying ‘a little bit of bread with no cheese.’”

“Why would a bird even say that?” Courfeyrac enquired. 

The four of them watched the little bird at the window. It ruffled its feathers, and pecked at something on the weathered stone. Marius wasn’t sure at what point he stopped looking at it and instead dropped his eyes to Cosette, watching her smile. 

She’d asked him to come and stay in summer, a proposition she’d voiced as if it wouldn’t make his heart leap, and set him in fevered anticipation of being away from where he usually spent his summers; in a succession of cold, characterless hostels, and instead with her. And she hadn’t asked out of sympathy, she’d asked because she’d truly wanted him there. And that sent a shot of warmth about him that was far stronger than the watery sun that was slowly wrapping itself in the heat of summer.

Cosette shifted slightly and reached for his hand, her fingers twining about his. The yellowhammer ruffled its feathers once more, let out its characteristic call, and then took off into the sky.

Marius watched it go, a flurry of yellow wings sweeping out over the castle grounds, and then dipping out of sight to fly about the turrets near the lake. Combeferre had said it was a sign of summertime, and sitting in that classroom with Cosette’s hand in his, Marius had never felt warmer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I SUCK this should have been updated so long ago I do apologize
> 
> But thank you so much for sticking with me!!!! Only two more chapters to go! (I mean, potentially...I am not a very organised human)


	15. the days grow hot and mandrakes hit puberty

Spring moved onwards, and the birds began to sing in the mornings, in the hours before the sun peaked over the craggy, gorse covered mountains. Then, in the last week of April, the cuckoo struck up its throaty trill from the trees beside Hagrid’s Hut, and Enjolras knew enough about birds to know that meant that the colder months had been fully set aside for now.

It soothed him, those erratic, fevered feelings that had been his for the past few days, since he’d sat with Grantaire in that alcove and taken his hands in his, and felt his pulse warm beneath his skin. 

He’d felt stretched, and tired, and bitterly frustrated for so long, in those long cold months proceeding Christmas. And now those feelings had left him, lightening his chest, and his shoulders and making him realise just how heavy they’d been. More than anything his heart had begun to ache in a way he had been convinced it couldn’t.

It ached in a different way now. 

There was a tentative lightness about his chest, a wild happiness that almost felt nauseous. He thought he recongised it from earlier moments, like the evening on the roof; as Grantaire had fallen asleep next to him, his head coming to rest heavy against his shoulder, his slow, quiet breathing drifting to Enjolras’s hearing on the cold, fresh air of night-time. He’d been trying for so long not to think of things like that, and now they all rushed to him; like a dam that had broken, water rushing and flooding to meet his feet. 

He was still afraid. Of himself, of what was in Grantaire’s thoughts, and of what these hesitant, heartfelt confessions might do, but it was a dizzying kind of fear that he didn’t want to take much heed of. 

The showers of April blew out with a suddenness that made Enjolras think that perhaps the force of his happiness may have just changed the weather. He had, after all, made it rain on his least favourite aunt when he was eight years old.

Blue skies scrubbed themselves over the castle, and the sun was a constant ball in the sky, not quite reaching the heights it would in the next few months. It brought a heat with it, a new heat that warmed the cold corridors of the castle, turning the grey stone ochre and yellow. 

The occupants of the castle might have been nearly as light-hearted as Enjolras at the first throws of summer. Except that summer also meant exams. 

So the first weekend of May saw them sprawled out on the sloping lawns beside the lake with the other students who had decided to defiantly ignore the library. It was another of the hot days that had turned themselves typical in the last week; and the sunlight was falling dappled through the leaves of the willow tree beside them, its waving tendrils green and new. Below the trees in the Forbidden Forest at the end of the grounds, carpets of bluebells and nettles had begun to sweep in the wake of approaching summer.

“I will never understand this shitty spell.” Bahorel growled under his breath, and Enjolras looked up in time to see a fountain of unenticingly coloured water shoot from the tip of his wand.

“That looked promising.” Jehan remarked casually, busy stroking Aziola and sipping at his cold flagon of pumpkin juice. 

“Why does it look so,” Bahorel paused to locate the word as Feuilly began to snigger, “ _Faecial_.” 

“You’re making the wrong arm gesture,” Courfeyrac informed him, readjusting the sunglasses he’d received from Jehan’s copy of The Quibbler. Enjolras was not entirely surprised to see that they were fluorescent, and rimmed with some kind of rotating petal pattern. Sometimes, he felt magic went too far. 

“The surface rippled, Prouvaire,” Grantaire suddenly declared, gesturing over towards the lake, where sure enough, small rivulets of disturbed water was making the rushes wave. Jehan gave a strangled exclamation and leapt to his feet, sending pumpkin juice spilling and Aziola growling as he commenced a dash to the shore of the lake. They all watched him go, scrambling to the water’s edge, and a moment later a lazy green tentacle broke the surface, glistening in the sunlight. A few first years nearby let out squeals of alarm. 

“The Giant Squid is even better at making entrances than you are, Courf.” Musichetta observed, and Courfeyrac made a wounded noise. 

Enjolras took the squid’s brief distraction to let his eyes wander over towards Grantaire, squinting slightly as the leaves danced above him; sunlight sporadically lighting against his eyes. His fingers played with the grass beneath him, shredding it slightly, causing torn grass to drift its sweet scent lazily upwards. 

Grantaire was sprawled out on the grass next to Joly and Bossuet, his bag beneath his head. His arm was thrown up to shield his eyes from the sunlight that the willow tree next to them was filtering into dappled stars of light. 

The morning in the corridor had not been far from Enjolras’s thoughts in these following few days; if it had ever left them at all. A cautious giddiness had stolen itself over him; cautious in the face of the anxiety of misinterpretation, or dreaming. The castle and its occupants had spun about too fast for them to find any time to clarify, and so Enjolras had spent these last few days restless, with a nauseous kind of anticipation and happiness tangled about his insides. And he’d caught Grantaire’s eye at dinner times, or in lessons, and thought that maybe he shared that feeling. 

But he’d gone for so long oblivious and assuming so falsely, he wasn’t sure how much he could trust his judgement any more. 

“Are you a lawn mower, Enjolras?” Courfeyrac's voice asked in his ear, and a moment later he found Courfeyrac’s arm around his shoulders as he was pulled into a fond, if rather rough embrace. 

“ _That’s_ what I was missing from my Muggle household appliances list!” Joly announced triumphantly, as Enjolras wrapped his arm about Courfeyrac’s neck in some vain attempt to acquire a semblance of dominance. Joly reached around them to grab a sheet of parchment to apparently scrawl ‘landmower’ onto it. 

“I wish I’d taken Muggle Studies,” Feuilly grumbled, “It would have been an easy pass after living in every Muggle house imaginable.” 

“I think it should be compulsory,” Cosette said, looking round from where she’d been holding a buttercup under Marius’s chin. Marius was waiting for the resulting decision of whether or not he liked butter, a pile of encyclopaedias on his lap, sleeves pulled up over his hands.

“I did send an owl or two to the school governors about it.” Combeferre said mildly, and Courfeyrac began to laugh,

“Or six, or seven,” He added, and Combeferre tried to fight a smile rather unsuccessfully. It failed entirely when Courfeyrac leant over and pressed a kiss to his cheek a moment later.

“Reckon I’m devious enough to sneak in a Smart-Answer Quill?” Bahorel asked them at large.

“ _No_ ,” Combeferre and Musichetta informed him at the same time. 

Courfeyrac finally released Enjolras and settled onto the patch of grass beside him, shoulder pressed against his own. Enjolras liked Courfeyrac’s fondness for physical closeness; he’d grown used to the warmth of him whenever he was nearby, whether they were talking or not. It felt indescribably _warm_ to have someone so affectionate in his life, after a childhood of coldness and reservation. 

There was a shrill, tweeting noise, and Joly slapped a hand against the watch on his wrist, which seemed to be where the sound had originated from. It let out a rude, rasping noise, as if it had blown a raspberry, and fell silent.

“Time to check on our Mandrake, R,” He said, leaning back to rest against Bossuet and tilting his head so he could see Grantaire, “My turn or yours?”

“Mine.” Grantaire announced, stretching his arms upwards into the air, and smirking slightly, “I want to be the cool Mandrake uncle that smuggles nitrogen into the family gatherings.” 

“Please don’t kill it,” Joly pleaded, as Grantaire began to get slowly to his feet, untangling his legs, “St Mungo’s career paths would quite like me to have an Outstanding NEWT.”

“It’s like you don’t trust me, Jolllly.”

“I’ll walk with you,” Enjolras blurted before he’d taken much time to work out the phrasing. Grantaire blinked and looked at him, cool façade slipping slightly. 

“What?” He asked,

“I need to get a book out the library,” Enjolras muttered determinedly, and reached for his bag and setting down the flagon of pumpkin juice he’d barely touched. 

“Can you grab me a copy of _Goshawk’s Guide to Herbology_ , please?” Combeferre asked, calmly looking up from the notes he was making on a stack of parchment. 

“You haven’t memorised it yet?” Feuilly asked dryly, and recoiled with a snigger as Combeferre flicked his wand and sent a well-formed parchment airplane in his direction. 

Enjolras wasn’t sure if it was a knowing look that had been etched in Combeferre’s face. He contemplated it as he started the walk up towards the castle, Grantaire at his side, looking hesitant. He was sure he was very poor at controlling his expressions and mannerisms about Grantaire, and Combeferre knew him better than anyone, except Courfeyrac.

“You and Grantaire seem different around one another, lately.” Combeferre had commented yesterday, as they’d been walking the castle corridors for prefect duty. His tone hadn’t been accusing, but Enjolras had given a start that had been anything but casual. 

“Do we?” He’d asked lamely, and Combeferre had shot him a look,

“You do.” Was all he’d said, and apparently let the matter drop there. 

And it wasn’t that Enjolras wanted to hide it, as if it were something he were ashamed of. Whatever it was. A meeting in a silent sunlit corridor, when he’d finally found the courage to say what had been wound so tightly about him for so long that it had become a second skin. An uncertainty of where to tread next, for fear that the ground would crack and crumble beneath him. 

That uncertainty instilled itself further as he walked beside Grantaire now, and noticed how quiet he was. 

“How old are the mandrakes?” He asked after searching for something to say, and immediately regretted it.

Grantaire gave a weak smile, and rubbed a hand lightly over an eye as he responded,

“They hit puberty last week.” He said, then gave a fuller smirk, “For which I pity them.”

Enjolras gave a strangled kind of laugh at that, and shot a quick look at Grantaire. He ended meeting Grantaire’s eye, and he distantly wondered how long Grantaire had been looking at him. 

“You can come and look at them if you like,” Grantaire said after a prolonged silence, where Enjolras found himself trying to say something, but it got tangled inside him, like the way his hands were bunching the fabric in the pockets of his robes. There was something in the left pocket, a galleon, and what felt like the Weather in a Bottle that Courfeyrac had bought him from Zonko’s on their last trip to Hogsmeade. He abruptly released it.

“Yes.” He’d said before he’d really considered it, and Grantaire looked slightly startled that he’d accepted,

“I mean,” He said hurriedly, “They’re not very interesting. They’re sulking a lot at the moment. We’re having to play them a lot of Celestina Warbeck.” 

“I want to go,” Enjolras told him resolutely, and wondered if Grantaire had asked him simply to fill the silence, and then abruptly wondered if his mind was hurtling past overthinking, “I haven’t been to the green houses since fifth year.”

Grantaire seemed to find that amusing; a smile crept onto his lips, his customary smile that twisted the corners of his mouth and drew Enjolras’s eyes to his lips in a way he’d never been quite to explain. But perhaps now he was beginning to understand. 

“What?” He asked, unsure whether he was being mocked.

“Why did you continue _History of Magic_?” Grantaire asked with a breathy laugh, “You could have done Herbology. And have actually not been bored out of your mind.” 

“I took it for same reason you did.” Enjolras replied, although the moment the words were out of his mouth, he realised that Grantaire’s already detailed knowledge of magical history probably caused no inclination for him to be retold a simplified version by a painfully dull ghost. Perhaps he’d simply taken it to doodle on spare parchment, and look out the window for several hours every week.

“Er, I don’t think that’s true.” Grantaire was saying and Enjolras looked away from the walls of the castle they’d begun to walk parallel to; thrown into shade cast by curling, blossoming ivy, to look at Grantaire’s expression. It seemed determinedly blank. 

“Why did you take it?” He asked him.

Grantaire did not answer immediately, and continued walking, reaching out a hand to snap off a stem of ivy and twirl it between his long fingers restlessly. 

Then he shot Enjolras a look, a toothy grin that nearly hid the odd sort of defeat lighting his eyes.

“Because someone I liked took it.” He said. 

Enjolras missed a step slightly, stumbling as he turned to face Grantaire as his words met his brain, thrumming about his mind as if they’d been sent on an electrical current. 

“Oh.” Was all he could say, lamely, and try to work out what to say next.

“Of course,” Grantiare said in a reflecting tone, “Courfeyrac had a week or so of promising to take it with me. I think he initially misinterpreted my interest and thought he was offering himself as a buffer in a selfless act of aiding my desire of education,” He smirked again, “But he must of worked it out, as he then inexplicably _didn’t_ add it to his list of choices.”

“This was in the beginning of _fifth_ year.” Enjolras protested, because thinking of Grantaire living so knowingly with these thoughts and feelings for so long set a spiel of feelings over him.

“Yeah it was, wasn’t it.” Grantaire mused in a light tone, then turned his eyes on Enjolras again, pinning him with grey blue irises, a new intensity to him now, “I told you how far back this goes. I wasn’t joking, Enjolras.” 

Perhaps it was him saying his name so gently, as if it was a prayer, that sent some wash of calm over him, like cool ocean swell. His eyes were still fixed on his, and Enjolras couldn’t look away. 

“Courfeyrac knew,” He eventually mumbled, relatively unaware of what he was saying.

“You know.” Grantaire considered, turning forwards again and picking up their stride as they passed through one of the dilapidated stone arches that led towards the greenhouses, “I think Courfeyrac is the king of convoluted plans. They should create a Ministry department around him.” 

They reached the greenhouses with Enjolras’s head still reeling slightly, a maze of questions that had sprouted in the past few days cramming in about him. They felt akin to the clammy air of Greenhouse Three when they entered it; the glass misted from the heat. Leaves of various plants Enjolras had never learned the names of spiralled their way over the lead structure; spilling out of the slotted vents on the arched ceiling above them.

Grantaire wordlessly led him towards a long desk to their right, where twenty or so rustling plants were making muffled noises and shaking their leaves. He hadn’t seen Mandrakes since the second year, and he hadn't quite remembered them as being as large as these ones before him now. A group of fluffy pink earmuffs lay ominously hooked on a shelf nearby.

“This is the one Joly and I are repotting tomorrow,” Grantaire said, reaching the low desk and leaning forwards on his elbows to examine the nearest leafy plant. It seemed to huff loudly. “Ovid, meet Enjolras.”

There was a beat of silence, in which Grantaire looked expectantly in Enjolras's direction. 

“Erm, hello.” Enjolras said, wondering if this was a productive use of his vocal chords. The plant didn’t return the greeting, which left him to ascertain that it wasn’t. 

“Ovid’s going to win Joly and I an Oustanding NEWT, aren’t you Ovid?” Grantaire continued, poking the plant with an index finger. The plant reshuffled its leaves and made a low huffing noise again. Grantare shook his head and bent to drag out a bag of fertilizer.

“ _Teenagers_ ,” He said, in what Enjolras gathered to be his best impression of a middle class adult.

The situation was perfectly normal for Hogwarts standards, but Enjolras stood there and watched Grantaire sift fresh fertilizer into Ovid the Mandrake’s pot, and wished that Grantaire could help him sort out the reeling spinning in his mind, without a pubescent plant interfering. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He eventually asked, and the question came out more pleading than he had intended. 

Grantaire stilled in his movements slightly, dirt tacked about his hands and the sleeves of his robes, and Enjolras wondered how much he could ask before that façade of Grantaire’s sprung up; the one where he turned mocking and defensive, that left Enjolras waspish and ruining so much between them. He wondered how much he had ruined already. 

Grantaire eventually shrugged, and it struck Enjolras that he seemed to be working hard to stay casual in his mannerisms. 

“Why didn’t _you_ tell me?” He asked, instead of answering, and it wasn’t an accusing look he sent at Enjolras a moment later, from his crouched position on the ground, but one that was laced with a kind of sad understanding. “I imagine we had similar reasons.” 

“I didn’t want to ruin things.” Enjolras said quietly, slotting his hands into the pockets of his robes again and twisting the fabric about his fingers. 

“Mmm.” Grantaire mused, rubbing a finger against one dirt streaked palm, “Although what we were afraid of ruining I have no idea. Warm and friendly conversations were distinctly lacking.” 

“I still liked them,” Enjolras told him, and when Grantaire snorted doubtfully he reconsidered, “Until one of us stormed off.” 

“It was usually you,” Grantaire informed him, and there was a smile tugging at his lips again. He’d finished with the fertilizer, and was turning the opening of its thick paper bag over in his fingers, pressing folds to it. Enjolras watched the progress of his hands, and bit back an urge to reach for them. 

“I don’t take kindly to being called ‘dear’.” He instead said with a smile. 

“Noted.” Grantaire smirked, looking up and meeting his gaze. Enjolras wasn’t sure how many heartbeats passed, but when Grantaire looked down again he was certain there had not been enough. 

“I know we’ve made a mess of this already,” Enjolras said, and the words sounded hesitant and vulnerable in this empty, hot greenhouse, silent except for the whispering rustle of plants and Grantaire’s restless movements a few metres away. “And I know I should have worked this out sooner, and talked to you about it sooner-” He stumbled slightly on the words, and wondered how he could phrase so much so eloquently, and trip on the thing he most wanted to get right. His hands were working in his pockets, clenching into tight fists that dug nails to flesh. “And I can’t ever make up for that, but I still want to try, if you do.” 

Grantaire’s eyes had been on him for the duration of those fumbled words, an unreadable expression laced through their stormy colour, but on his finishing he looked away again, lips parting as he heaved a slow breath. Enjolras traced the movement, watching his chest rise and fall. The fear he’d been feeling so consciously since their time in the corridor, and for far longer than that, from that quiet kiss in an empty corridor at Christmas, rose upwards again; pulling at his throat and tightening his chest. 

He squeezed his hands into fists again, and a moment later there was a soft pop. And it began to rain. 

It wasn’t so much rain, but a low blanket of cloud that suddenly burst into almost lazy existence, and sent down a smattering of misty, warm droplets that clashed with the already hot greenhouse air. 

“ _Erm_ ,” Grantaire said, looking up at the thin veil of cloud as it shrouded them, sweeping him into a blurry filter of dark blues and blacks. 

“Oh,” Enjolras said, as realisation dawned on him, “There was a Weather in a Bottle in my pocket, er-” 

There was a harsh bark of laughter through the rain-cloud, which Enjolras would have known to issue from Grantaire had this rain been thicker than fog, and it set a smile to his own lips, a low breath of laughter escaping them and steaming the air. 

There was a soft clatter from Grantaire’s area, and a moment later he came into clarity, gently kicking a watering can from his path. He halted a metre or so away, his breath steaming the clammy air, eyes fixed on Enjolras’s with a glittering intent that tightened Enjolras’s stomach as if it had been worked into knots. The warm, thick air was sticking his curls to his temples and his collar, but when Grantaire stepped forwards, so hesitantly, and slotted his fingers about the nape of his neck, he did not seem to mind. 

And all thoughts of his own skin were gone when he slowly leaned forwards and pressed his lips to Grantaire’s. 

It somehow felt entirely different to the last time they had done this. His heart was still racing in his chest, so furiously he was sure Grantaire could feel his skin thrum with it, and the silence of their surroundings seemed to press themselves inwards, cutting down his world to the softness and taste of Grantaire’s lips. 

But this time was so different to that quick, not-quite kiss so many months ago. This time Enjolras’s hands came up to tangle in Grantaire’s hair, and touch the thick curls he’d spent so long pondering with his eyes, before he was entirely aware he was doing it. The strands of it were growing damp and curling further in the bizarre humidity Enjolras had accidentally created, and Grantaire gave a low sigh at the back of his throat as Enjolras’s fingers tugged at it clumsily and hungrily. This time Enjolras didn’t pull away as if he’d been burnt, assuming that air which Grantaire had read as his horror, one that had divided them for too many months. This time he knew a mistake when he saw one, and this wasn’t it. 

The edge of a mud strewn desk found the small of his back, and he pulled back momentarily to steady himself, hands gripping down on wet soil before reaching back to Grantaire’s hair. Grantaire was still tangled about him, his hands locked around the back of his neck, so gently at first, as if he were terrified of rebuttal. Now his grip strengthened, hands moving forwards to work softly over the frame of his jaw. Their arms bumped against one another, clashing in their separate attempts to cling to hair and skin. 

They broke from one another’s lips at the same moment, a rush of gasping filling the space between them, loudened in the resolutely quiet room. Their foreheads bumped together as they looked downwards, Grantaire’s eyelashes flickering in the corner of Enjolras’s vision. 

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire breathed, voice low and ragged in a way that made Enjolras’s fingers twitch, still entangled in his hair, “Was that too much-” 

“No.” Enjolras said, far more forcefully than he had intended. He locked eyes with Grantaire, and after a moment they each let out a breathy laugh, one that hitched in throats. 

“There’s mud on your cheek,” Grantaire said in a low, husky voice, swiping a thumb along Enjolras’s cheekbone and setting a light prickling about the skin he touched. 

“Thank you.” Enjolras said thickly, eyes still locked on his. 

The Weather in a Bottle petered out, leaving a clearer quiet about them, spare the soft tapping of leaves releasing heavy water-drops, and the small rivulets that were working a tangled way towards the drain on the stone floor. The back of Enjolras’s neck was damp, his robes stuck uncomfortably to his shoulders. 

But Grantaire was indescribably warm before him, his hands still pressed to his skin, eyes setting him with a warmth that seemed to echo static charge. He didn’t say anything, but Enjolras felt that maybe they were thinking the same thing. That this felt dreamlike beneath the heavy dampness of clothing and hair, and the very real thrumming of Enjolras's heart that seemed to have moved its way to his throat. And the feeling that they should have done this far earlier. 

But perhaps things would have been different, Enjolras thought, the consideration quick and fleeting before Grantaire leaned forwards once more, moving until his lips were a centimetre away, eyes fixed on Enjolras’s, somewhere between teasing and asking permission. 

He’d never been much good at philosophizing, he supposed. Nor pondering on different courses. There was only what was, and what might be changed. And as he met Grantaire’s lips again, more determined this time, he realised fully that he’d encountered something he wanted to remain forever.

-

“I have a very strong feeling that first year levitation charms will _not_ come up in your Charms NEWT.” Musichetta informed Courfeyrac, as he sent a third textbook shooting up over her head towards the branches of the willow tree.

“Are you secretly in cahoots with our examiner?” He questioned her dramatically, as the textbook bumped against the bark of the tree and flopped back to the ground again with a loud thud. 

“Are you secretly from the 1940’s when people still said cahoots?” She shot back at him, smirking. 

“There’s a theory that that word derived from the word ‘cohorts.’” Combeferre said from behind the copy of _Unfogging the Future_ , that he was reading on his back, the book raised above him. Courfeyrac didn’t bother trying to protest that he didn’t even study Divination. He calmly turned a page as Musichetta waited for him to continue, “It’s never really been proven adequately, though.” 

“Thanks for that.” She said, amused. 

“You’re just envious that we will always destroy the quiz at The Three Broomsticks.” Courfeyrac said, plucking a daisy and beginning to pierce the stem with a thumbnail. He sent Combeferre a toothy smile, that lessened in showiness as Combeferre met his gaze. He gave a smile back, one etched with a warm fondness that Courfeyrac wanted to melt into, and he wondered how it was possible to feel this much for someone without bursting. 

It had been such an effortless slide from being Combeferre’s friend to being someone who could lean over and trace the lines of his face with a fingertip, someone who could plant gentle kisses along his skin, and fiercer, deeper ones on his mouth when no one else was watching. So easy a transition it was like waking up in the late afternoon, with soft warm light spilling through thin curtains. 

Marius shifted next to him, sighing softly as he turned the page of his encyclopaedia, long fingers drumming on the paper. 

Courfeyrac wondered if he too felt that warmth around Cosette, and then immediately dismissed any wonder. He knew he did. He saw it in the lines of his face, and the look that lit his eyes when he looked at her, or spoke to her. 

It gladdened Courfeyrac more than he could really express, to see Marius happy. When he’d first met him his misery had been painted about him like a watercolour wash, a result of time alone and isolated and everything else the world had so wrongly sent his way. He’d brightened since coming to the castle though, Courfeyrac had seen, something observed through long years of friendship. 

And Cosette was that in all certainty. 

He threaded another daisy through the small hole he’d created, pulling the stem through it with gentle movements. 

“How much does this year even count towards NEWT year?” Bossuet put to their circle, sipping pumpkin juice threw a straw as he looked down at his notes, distaste on his face. 

“You’ll probably still manage an Acceptable if you fail this year,” Marius answered, and Courfeyrac felt fairly certain Bossuet had not wanted that question answered, “If you do really well next year…” He trailed off, apparently aware that he was laying on pressures no one wanted to think of. 

Eponine snorted. 

“Comforting.” She said, a lopsided smile growing wolfishly on her face. 

She rarely looked at Marius in the way that she used to, Courfeyrac mused, threading another daisy through the growing chain, and he supposed he was glad of it. He was rarely shy of anything, but asking Eponine about Marius had been one of things he’d never broached, the same way he’d never asked Grantaire about Enjolras. And even then, playing with the idea to Grantaire did not seem the same as it would have been with Eponine. The way Grantaire looked at Enjolras seemed to contain little attempt at concealment, despite the sadness it laced about him. But with Eponine, that looked seemed to slip past a guard she’d set herself, one of harsh control. And it now seemed to be softening, her eyes far less fixed on him, lessening as summer heightened. 

On the shore of the lake Jehan was still standing, trousers rolled up as he reached upwards to touch a hand to the Giant Squid’s emerged tentacle. A group of second years behind him were timidly observing his actions, stepping closer as they grew in confidence. 

Courfeyrac finished the daisy chain just as he spotted Enjolras and Grantaire wending their way back through the groups of students who had come outside to work, or snooze in the weekend sun. He held the chain out to Combeferre, who took it with a mixture of amusement and fondness etched about his face. 

“Thank you.” He grinned. 

“You’re back!” Joly exclaimed, looking up from his notes to Grantaire as they rejoined the circle. Courfeyrac instantly noticed the way they were each holding themselves, shoulders brushing, but standing stiffly, and his eyes flicked upwards to study the smattering of mud strewn across Enjolras’s face, and the clumps of it that seemed to be sticking to Grantaire’s hair. “How is Ovid?” 

“Thriving.” Grantaire said, and there was an odd sort of smirk on his face, lips twisting as he settled back in his vacated spot, “If he could slam bedroom doors and express how much we suck, he would be.” 

“Erm, why are you soaking?” Cosette asked politely, looking from Enjolras to Grantaire. Enjolras blushed, and sat down where he had been standing, legs crossing clumsily. 

“The hazards of Greenhouse Three apparently,” Grantaire supplied, and there was definitely some kind of secret laugh to his tone. He seemed to be enjoying the shifting of glances between himself and Enjolras that was taking place, as if they’d found themselves situated in a Muggle tennis match. 

“Right.” Feuilly said, tone dripping with sarcasm, and Bossuet began to snigger, “ _Naturally._ ” 

An odd kind of silence fell at that, broken by Bossuet’s sniggering, and the flapping of a page of Marius’s encyclopaedia that had been picked up in a breeze. He let it rustle, staring open mouthed at Enjolras as his cheeks grew steadily pinker. Courfeyrac wondered if anyone could hear the bizarre, high squeak he was beginning to make in the back of his throat. Grantaire alone seemed entirely comfortable with the silence, plaiting strands of grass beneath him. Though under the tangled- and muddied- curls of his hair, Courfeyrac was sure he saw him blushing. 

“Enjolras,” Combeferre said after a long, heavy pause, and everyone looked at him. There was an entirely-too-smug expression on his features, “Did you get me _Goshawk’s Guide to Herbology_?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhhhhhh sorry this took a reaaallly long time to be uploaded ! i'm now free of uni (forever ah help adulthood) so the next update should be sooner!!! (but don't hold your breath i'm just useless) 
> 
> as ever i am [here](http://icarus-drunk.tumblr.com/) on tumblr and thank you so much for reading this ahhh the comments are making my days <3


	16. exam season is unwelcome, and summer rains go mostly unnoticed

April faded and slipped muggy into May, as if British summertime were for the first time heeding to the months that were supposed to be warm. The grounds about the castle stretched thick and green and sweet smelling. Its scent drifted in through the windows of classrooms, left open to let cool breeze touch the warm, stuffy air. The sky seemed determinedly blue and clear, and evenings saw sunsets that leaked greens and pinks about the cloudless sky, and made Jehan feel sad in a way that an ending summer’s day always did. 

Much to everyone’s chagrin, with the warm, clear weather came exams. 

Jehan had half hoped, when he’d first come to the castle, that the school deviated enough from the Muggle society he’d learned about to have no need of formal, written tests. But unfortunately he had been very wrong. And so now days dragged out where they were seated in long rows in the Great Hall, a giant hour glass by the long sweeping windows at the front, sand hissing through it, and quills scratching on long parchment. His mind felt sluggish and drained from it all, unburdened only by cool evenings that sweetened the air after hours of burning sunshine and stuffy rooms. Joly was treating them to the Calming Drafts he’d been making in his spare time, something Jehan and Grantaire had mutually discovered created a light, spaced feeling when taken in large quantities. Joly had, unfortunately, since been withholding it from them. 

He’d finally worked up the courage to ask Grantaire about what had taken place between him and Enjolras, a week or so after their time at the lake. The curiosity seemed to be one in the eyes of the rest of his friends, as well as the hesitant gladness. Jehan had been sure of Enjolras’s dislike of Grantaire for these past years of school, but maybe, now he thought back on it, there really was a fine line between affection and supposed distaste, and he wondered how he had not observed that sooner.

And the hesitant gladness had rushed into one of no hesitancy now, he’d observed. He’d seen Enjolras’s face rushed with pleasured colour whenever he’d noticed Grantaire enter the room, and his eyes and attention were so often fixed on him that he’d barely noticed the illicit Fanged Frisbee Bahorel had borrowed from a third year two nights ago. 

And Jehan had asked Grantaire about it, one evening when Grantaire had been helping him with his star charts for Astronomy, and had asked how it had happened, and when. And Grantaire had given his customary hoarse laugh, which had later given way to somewhat hysterical laughter when he’d been describing a meeting in a corridor and Jehan hadn’t been able to get much sense from him.

“Sorry, Prouvaire,” He’d said, “It still feels like I’m reading the lines of a script for someone else’s life.” 

“As long as you’re happy, R.” 

“I feel like I’ve been looking at some Wildfire Whiz-bangs too long and I’m slightly dazzled. But yeah, I suppose that’s happiness.”

Jehan wasn’t too sure about that answer, and Grantaire did seem cautious about Enjolras, as if he were slightly perplexed. For his part, Enjolras still seemed tentative, as if this thing between them were something breakable still. And Jehan was somewhat afraid that the rest of them knew, as if it had forced them out onto a stage when they were not ready for the audience. But then again, perhaps it did them a world of good. Jehan could imagine that there was little he’d want to go through without these loud, chaotic people, whose capacity for gentleness was far greater than most gave them credit for. He always felt exhausted after being in their company for a long period, but the kind of exhaustion that was felt at the end of a lazy, sunlit day, on returning home and sinking into bed. 

It was in the second week of exams on a Thursday evening when he found himself sitting in the Great Hall with Enjolras, Bahorel, Eponine, Marius, Cosette and Bossuet. The others were currently outside in the balmy evening in the Greenhouses, sitting their Herbology practical examination. Jehan was currently trying to consign star charts and constellations into his overladen brain for the Astronomy exam at midnight. 

The tables of the Great Hall had been weighed down with dinner for the past ten minutes, which Bahorel had used to all possible advantage, cramming vast quantities of Shephard’s Pie into his mouth.

“Brain fuel.” He’d said thickly, when he’d seen the raised eyebrow Jehan had pointed in his direction. At least, that was what Jehan assumed he had said. 

“It’s really quite impressive.” Eponine commented, from where she was watching Bahorel’s progress with one hand cupping her chin. Bahorel sent her an appreciative nod. 

Movement came from Jehan’s right, where a seat away Enjolras was still busy trying to siphon off the Horklump Juice he had spilled on his sleeve during the Potions examination that morning. Joly leant forwards across the table to help with a pitying expression. and Jehan thanked his fifth year self once again that he had decided to not carry on Potions.

A moment later, Jehan was distracted from the rhyming couplet he’d been constructing on the corner of _Astronomy for Dummies_ by Montparnasse slinking into the space beside Eponine, his back to the table. 

“How’s your star chart?” He asked her without greeting, leaning backwards on a casual elbow, apparently unaware of the attention he had created.

“I can never remember where Perseus is supposed to go.” Eponine growled, seemingly unsurprised at his sudden appearance, “And Gavroche broke the telescope in his lesson yesterday.” Jehan looked over at her set expression, feeling a swoop of guilt at the thought of Eponine having to share school supplies with her siblings. 

“I’ll trade you mine.” Montparnasse told her, through a languid yawn, “I don’t need to pass this exam.” 

“That’s...chivalrous.” Bossuet said uncertainly. 

“Fine,” Eponine told Montparnasse, giving a heavy sigh that didn’t really hide her grin, “If you insist.”

Montparnasse’s gallantry was interrupted by Grantaire, Joly, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Feuilly and Musichetta appearing at the entrance to the hall a moment later, looking thoroughly tired and mud-strewn, which was everything Jehan expected from a practical Herbology examination. 

“How did it go?” Bahorel asked them loudly when they were within earshot, one cheek slightly distended from the carrot he had wedged there, “I was wearing my lucky boxers for you.”

“Too kind of you.” Feuilly informed him, flopping onto the space of bench beside him and helping himself to a spoonful of Bahorel’s loaded plate. “It was fine.” 

“The Chinese Chomping Cabbage got me.” Courfeyrac told them through a pout, sinking down onto the bench next to Jehan. A moment later he’d shoved his finger into Jehan’s face, where a purple bruise seemed to be forming, “ _Look_.”

Jehan, who had earlier been informed by Bossuet that he’d choked on his cup of tea leaves in that morning’s Divination exam, and caused the examination to be momentarily halted, privately felt that Courfeyrac had little to compete with. 

“You’ll have done brillianly,” Combeferre told him calmly, and Courfeyrac pretended to blush. Combeferre's lips twitched but he determinedly angled his next question at Jehan, “Are you ready for Astronomy?”

“Probably,” Jehan replied, only half listening. The majority of his attention was cast on Grantaire, who had been standing and talking animatedly to Musichetta all this while, and now finally appeared to have noticed that the only free spot to sit down was next to Enjolras. Enjolras, for his part, seemed to be enormously focused on trying not to blush. Unlike most areas of his life, he was failing in this rather substantially. 

Grantaire seemed to lose whatever hesitant battle had stolen itself over him, and clambered gracelessly into the vacant spot. Jehan watched them closely, and wondered if there was anything any onlooker could do to make this new thing easier. He didn’t really see how. This, unfortunately, seemed to be a transition Enjolras and Grantaire alone could work out the speed and velocity of. As well as its success. He’d seen a kind of concern in the eyes of some of their group, in Joly and Combeferre’s eyes especially, when they had studied them together. And he supposed it wasn’t necessarily misplaced. But there was also something about Grantaire and Enjolras, and their interactions before now, now that he thought about it, that had always seemed akin to a lightning storm. It could be damaging and dangerous, but there was a brightness to it, a spark that was stronger than anything Jehan had ever seen. Jehan usually revelled in woeful pessimism on the pages of literature and poetry, but here he would go as far to claim it entirely unnecessary. 

“What time is the exam, Jehan?” Courfeyrac asked him from his place a few seats down, leaning forwards to enthusaiasically spear a potato with his fork. Jehan wasn’t entirely sure whether he wanted to know, but it took the attention off Enjolras and Grantaire somewhat. As if on cue, Feuilly and Bahorel lapsed into a loud conversation about the latest results of the Winged Horse racing at Cheltenham. 

“Midnight.” Jehan told Courfeyrac, closing his book with a defeated sigh, 

“You’ll destroy it, Prouvaire,” Grantaire told him, a lazy smirk settled on his face as he leant forwads to address Jehan. He cut across Bahorel’s enthusiastic recount of Newt Spleen’s victory. “You were made to talk about the stars.” 

“That’s very poetic of you, R.” Jehan told him fondly, and he hoped that Grantaire would look to his right, where Enjolras was regarding him with a relatively unguarded look in his eyes. It was an expression Jehan had never seen on his face before. 

“Do you think I can memorise the names and diets of forty magical animals by tomorrow afternoon?” Bahorel asked, apparently having ceased the Winged Horse racing conversation.

“No.” Feuilly told him promptly. 

“Why have you left it so late?” Musichetta asked him, and despite her raised eyebrow, amusement lit her face. 

“Because no one told me Care of Magical Creatures was tomorrow.” Bahorel responded smartly, as if the answer were obvious, “I was all focused for Potions theory on Monday.” 

“Which, incidentally,” Combeferre said, getting to his feet, holding what appeared to be several sausages wrapped up in a napkin. “Is what I’m going to revise for now. Coming, Courfeyrac?” 

There was something about the fondness with which he voiced Courfeyrac’s name, devoid of its usual abbreviation, that made Jehan’s heart warm. Others were not so sentimental. Grantaire, Eponine, Cosette and Bossuet issued a collective wolf-whistle. 

“I wouldn’t recommend the library for a hook up,” Eponine informed them, seemingly working to keep a straight face, “It’s rather off-putting when Madame Pince springs round the corner.”

"Is it indeed?" Courfeyrac replied with a snigger, sending a very exaggerated look in Montparnasse’s direction. Eponine scowled at him as Montparnasse gave a very graceful and lazy shrug of one shoulder. Which rather stoppered any uncertainty.

“ _Oh_.” Marius said loudly, realisation spread about his face. 

“This has derailed rather quickly.” Combeferre said steadily, a grin tugging at his mouth, “I think I’ll see you all later.”

He swung a casual leg over the bench, and began to head down the table towards the Entrance Hall. Courfeyrac scrambled to his feet to hurry after him, a wink shot in Enjolras’s direction, and he jogged along parallel to Combeferre on the other side of the table. When the glossy, dark wood ended, they seemed to merge together, shoulders bumping from closeness. 

“Put learning first, children!” Feuilly called after them. 

The rest of them laughed, and Jehan opened his Astronomy book again, in the hopes of catching some last minute information as if it were spilling out of the pages like dust motes. He was rather distracted, however, by the people around him. Not that he minded for a moment. 

Feuilly and Bahorel were caught up in one of their loud, outlandish conversations, which usually ended in elbows ramming into ribs, or them flicking bursts of coloured lights at one another from their wands. 

Marius, Musichetta and Cosette were rattling off Transfiguration spells they thought they’d need for the examination next Wednesday, which was being occasionally sidetracked by the profiteroles that had just arrived as pudding. 

Bossuet was relating to Joly about the small debacle of his Divination exam, but with an exaggerated ridiculousness that had put Joly into hysterics. 

Eponine was watching them all, something like fondness draped across her usually guarded features. She seemed oddly pleased, perhaps some remnant of Courfeyrac’s suggestive eyebrow. As she looked at them, Montparnasse leant over towards her, and said something in a low voice that made her laugh. Jehan had never been entirely sure what was between them, but there was a definite happiness to Eponine whenever they were talking of late, and for that he was irretrievably glad. 

And then there was Grantaire and Enjolras. Enjolras had been relatively quiet this past half hour or so, but then Enjolras was far quieter than people usually supposed of him. Meeting him, or knowing him when he was fired up, in that untouchable zone when he seemed inaccessible and otherworldly in the force of his anger and determination set an inaccurate picture of him. Jehan knew him better as the Enjolras who would listen, laugh at their ridiculous jokes, imbued with a gentleness and caring that might not seem obvious at first, and might often be mistaken for coldness. 

Now he’d moved closer to Grantaire, and the two were conversing in low, quiet tones, their words lost in the din of the Great Hall at dinner time. As he watched, Enjolras’s fingers reached over, and gently rested against Grantaire’s, barely touching. 

It was odd, Jehan thought, how much could change so rapidly in such a short period of time. How feelings could warp and change as quickly as the weather that spun about the castle. But perhaps some feelings had always been there, weaving below the surface like the green and blue hues that floated beneath the glittering lake. 

The thought calmed him slightly, washing in-amongst the pre-exam nerves he always found took hold of him and made it all but impossible to sit still and peacefully. 

Those nerves were there now, but as he watched his friends, a silent observer, he felt that he could almost forget those nerves were present at all.

-

The weekend came and went with a suddenness that seemed natural when Grantaire had been pleading with it to drag on. There didn’t seem to be enough hours in the day to cram endless information into his mind, information that would seep out in a matter of weeks, like water from a tired sponge.

Before he knew it, it was Monday afternoon, and he was happily forgetting all that he had learnt for Defence Against the Dark Arts for another year. The exam had blurred into the rest of them already; a medley of scuffing feet, sniffing, and the rustle of parchment. 

He was walking through one of the upper floors of the castle, along a corridor uncannily like the one where he’d sat with Enjolras, his hands shaking so much he was sure they had broken. No sunlight was filtering through the windows today, to lie softly on the worn flagstones and faded rugs. 

Typical of summertime in Scotland, the days of warm sunshine had dissipated as quickly as they had come. That day was overcast despite its mugginess, and the grey clouds visible through the mullioned glass seemed to threaten rain at any moment. It set the trees in the courtyard beyond the windows a livid green, the only hint that the month was May.

The year was moving with a speed Grantaire was not sure he liked. March had seemed so recent, and the cold months of January and February, and he wasn’t entirely sure he’d noticed their passing until they had fully gone, never to be seen again. He felt as if he were standing atop a tall mountain, dizzy from the altitude, and he was not too sure how he had got there. 

But it was a good type of dizzy, he decided, despite the speed with which it had appeared. It would soon be summer, and that usually set a melancholy about him that was only eradicated by the arrival of September. But this year felt different. 

This year he had Enjolras. 

It still felt cautious, and tentative, but at the same time Grantaire had allowed a happiness he didn’t think he’d ever feel to steal over him. 

It lit along him like the strands of sunlight that had filtered through the new leaves in the past sunny days, or warmed the quiet castle hallways. It set a warmth about him that felt akin to stepping off a Muggle plane into a new, balmier climate; the feeling foreign and encompassing. 

It was a rhythm he was not yet used to; of having Enjolras look at him with an open warmness that he had held guarded for so long. And he was slowly letting himself respond to it, as if he were easing muscles that had been tensed for a long time, little by little. And it was terrifying, but that happiness blotted out so much, a wash of bright sunshine that dazzled his eyes.

He wasn’t sure if it was a nod to some previously undiscovered summoning power, that he went to round a corner only to nearly collide with a living, four-dimensional Enjolras. 

“Oh.” He said lamely, his brain rather struggling to process this development. 

By contrast, Enjolras’s lips spread into a smile, one that dimpled his cheeks slightly as if an invisible being had pressed them gently into place.

“I was hoping to run into you.” He said, “I lost you in the crowd leaving the hall.”

“Yeah?” Grantaire prompted, trying not to grin and wondering if Enjolras could hear the leap his heart made.

“Yes.” Enjolras confirmed, “History of Magic is on Wednesday and I was wondering if you wanted to go over some topics together?”

“Like Magical Theory?” Grantaire inquired, working to control his expression as he hoisted his bag up slightly. Enjolras looked uncertain at this response.

“Yes?”

“ _Snore._ ”

Enjolras looked relatively unsurprised at this comment. The corner of his mouth twitched upwards. 

“Come on then,” Grantaire said with an exaggerated sigh, turning about on his heel and striding to the large window a few paces away. Enjolras seemed perplexed as he opened it, the iron latches complaining slightly.

“What are you doing?” 

“I always revise _so_ much better on the roof,” Grantaire said over his shoulder, smirking as he swung one leg over the sill, “You simply _have_ to try it, Enjolras.”

“What is it with you and climbing out onto roofs?” He heard muttered behind him, but a moment later Enjolras dutifully followed him out onto the low sloping roof tiles. 

The roof here curved round in a sheltered horseshoe, view of the grounds below stoppered by the rustling branches of the yew tree that spanned upwards to brush against the guttering. The sky overhead was still its melancholy, looming grey, clashing with the slate roof tiles. Crows issued their guttural cries as they scrabbled for purchase on the gutters.

“This was not quite what I had in mind.” Enjolras said lightly, as Grantaire settled down, dropping his bag and arranging his legs so they crossed. He sent him a winning smirk. 

“The best things never are what you pictured.” He informed him seriously, “Are we revising or not?”

Enjolras seemed to grow slightly flustered, and after a moment of apparent deliberation he stepped cautiously forwards and sank onto the roof next to Grantaire. His arm brushed against his momentarily as he settled, and Grantaire stiffened on reflex. 

The air was muggy, a light, hot breeze dancing off the tree before them and tangling in Grantaire’s hair, cooling his face. It tugged at his robes slightly, and he flicked a suddenly uncertain look towards Enjolras and found him watching him. It was not a hostile look, or the guarded ones that Grantaire had grown so familiar with over their course of knowing one another. It was an oddly warm look, the kind that Grantaire was struggling to get used to, ones that would make his mind reel slightly when he observed them. 

Perhaps it was the waves of blustery air that was instilling itself coolly in his lungs and clearing his mind, but today he managed to return that look, a smile creeping onto his lips that was not nearly as hesitant as usual. 

The moment was rather ruined by the loud blaring noise that came muffled from the small space between them. 

“Erm, there’s a strange noise coming from your bag.” Enjolras pointed out rather unnecessarily, casting a look down to it.

“Yeah,” Grantaire said nonchalantly, leaning back on his hands, “Joly gave me some honking daffodils as a thank you for keeping Ovid alive.” 

Enjolras’s lips twitched, 

“I’m glad he’s thriving.” 

“Me too.” Grantaire commented with a smirk. 

They fell silent a moment, the breeze rustling the leaves before them, hitting against the guttering and tapping on the window pane on the wall below. The clouds above them seemed to swell and bellow, growing moodier with grey. 

“I’ll be glad when exams are over.” Enjolras said quietly, shifting one leg slightly, his knee waving left to right in absent thought,

“Mmm.” Grantaire said in strong agreement, rubbing the heel of his hand across one eye, “Although then it’s summer, you know.” 

“We could go somewhere,” Enjolras said, the words quick, as if it had been something he’d been wanting to say for a while. Grantaire started and turned to look at him. There was a glint in Enjolras’s eye, his lips set. His face was lined with the caution he often wore around Grantaire nowadays, but underneath it was that steeling resolution that so often draped itself about him. The kind of resolution that set Grantaire’s head slightly dizzy, as if he really had looked at the sun too long.

“Where?” He said lamely, too surprised to offer much else.

Enjolras shrugged at that, and shifted his weight as he set his hands behind him. The movement set his shoulder to Grantaire’s, and he felt a small frisson of warmth at the contact.

“Anywhere.” His lips twisted in something like an amused grimace, “Except for my house.”

“You mean your parents wouldn’t _adore_ me?” Grantaire enquired, dramatically dropping an elbow so he was looking up at Enjolras through his lashes, forearm flat against the roof-tiles. Enjolras looked down at him, dimples pressed into his cheeks and he seemed to fight a smile. He blushed, and Grantaire considered it worth the pain in his elbow from slamming it into the roof slate. 

“My parents don’t have taste.” He said, and Grantaire felt his face heat and wondered how the tables had turned quite so quickly, that he was left reeling and flustered, warmth flooding through him. 

Rain began to fall, the looming clouds finally giving up their indecision. Raindrops fell sporadically, cold and heavy onto Grantaire’s exposed skin. He squinted up at the sky as if to question the presence of May. 

He half expected Enjolras to get to his feet, to cut this surprise segment of slow quiet together to an early death. But instead he took out his wand, and turned a questioning gaze upon him,

“What was that spell that repelled water?” He asked.

“How do you expect to change the world if you can’t stop the rain, Enjolras?” Grantaire asked him with a doleful head-shake, fighting a smirk as he worked his wand free of his sleeve, as the rain began to pick up.

“That sounds like a terrible metaphor.” Enjolras told him stiffly, and Grantaire sent him a crooked smile before sweeping his wand in a vague arc. A slither of air escaped from it, forming a lopsided bubble about them, sweeping over the curls of Enjolras’s hair and the folds of Grantaire’s robes. The rain ceased to hit down upon them, instead dropping lightly on the charmed bubble, like fingers tapping on windowpanes. 

The sounds came muted to them then, as if they were sitting indoors.

Enjolras made a noise low in his throat, some kind of pleased reaction, and Grantaire looked over and met his eye. Their gazes seemed to lock at these moments, he thought dizzily, his eyes tangled in Enjolras’s. It felt akin to being lost in a storm at sea, only to have the wind die and the seas calm, set safely on course. 

The freckles that clustered beneath Enjolras’s lower lashes rose upwards as the skin about his eyes creased with a slow smile. Grantaire became aware of his heart thumping beneath his ribs, making his chest jump as if it were the surface of a drum. The rain above them fell heavier, getting caught on the charm and rippling as if hitting against the surface of water.

“You have very long eyelashes.” Enjolras told him quietly. 

Grantaire let out some kind of strangled croak at that, and Enjolras blushed.

Enjolras’s hand twitched where it rested on his own knee as they fell silent, staring at one another, and after some silent consideration, he gave a quick, sharp intake of breath, and leant forwards. 

His fingers touched feather light high against Grantaire’s cheek, his thumb brushing briefly against the very ends of Grantaire’s lower lashes. He blinked on impulse, too stunned to move, and having absolutely no desire to.

He smelt musky, and of Enjolras, and perhaps a little of the Horklump Juice he hadn’t quite managed to eradicate from his sleeve on Friday. And Grantaire tried to sort out the tangled threads that had laced themselves through his mind, that wondered at how he’d come to sit here, whether he deserved this, and why this felt so impossibly right. 

Something flickered in Enjolras’s eyes, some kind of reverent look about his face as he touched Grantaire’s skin, and his head felt dizzy, and he wondered if he’d ever adapt to the spin, or if he even wanted to. 

A sigh lit on his lips, and he leant forwards and kissed him, letting everything teeter and veer, as if Atlas had stumbled. 

He could feel Enjolras smiling, and that did little to settle him. 

It was odd, he thought, as Enjolras’s breathing sounded in his ear, all quiet exhales. Odd how so much of their odd balance of arguments and disagreements still channelled themselves through, in amongst this new flow of small, reeling kisses on quiet, rain-drenched rooftops. It set him back to some semblance of normality, of what he had known for the past few years, since coming to this castle. But it was different now. There was no hostility to it, no cruelty. And he knew that their words would no doubt be short and waspish now and then, more often than others might regard as normal. But it was their normal, and in amongst this new existence that allowed him to bridge the distance between their lips, Grantaire found that perhaps it was a nice normal, that allowed him to remember where he’d placed his feet.

The spell about them flickered slightly, a rush of raindrops spilling into their bubble of muted, dry air, quiet except for the occasional subdued honk from a daffodil in Grantaire’s bag. Grantaire pulled away and reached for his wand. The charm settled back a moment later, setting them once again beyond the reach of the rain.

“I got distracted.” Grantaire explained, sending Enjolras a wolfish grin. 

“Rudimentary spell casting,” Enjolras told him in a rather mock Combeferre tone, “Concentration is one of the most important factors in successful magic.” 

“Please be quiet.” 

“Sorry.” Enjolras said in a tone that was not at all apologetic, a brief flash of teeth appearing as he smiled. 

He evidently took Grantaire’s request for no talking very seriously, for a moment later he moved closer once more, lips pressing softly to Grantaire’s, a slow movement, as if he still expected Grantaire to draw away. The thought made him want to snigger. 

Enjolras’s fingers found their way to Grantaire’s hair, tangling in the curls at the base of his neck, his touch warm and firm. Grantaire let out a low sigh, chest moving, Enjolras’s breathing in his ear, filling momentary gaps between them.

When they finally broke apart, foreheads touching, the rain was beginning to taper slightly, wary sunshine struggling to break through the overbearing clouds. 

“I think we’ve taken ‘living in a bubble’ to a new, literal level.” Grantaire commented, which unfortunately happened to be the first sentence that came to his head. 

Enjolras snorted, shaking his head in apparent despair. 

They lapsed into a silence, one that wasn’t the uncomfortable, hostile ones of old. This one was companionable, with a warmth to it that felt akin to heavy blanket being draped over the two of them. Grantaire felt himself wishing to lie under it forever, to curl up on this rooftop and close his eyes, hyper-aware of Enjolras beside him, the way he was shifting his weight now and then, the smell of him, the sound of his breathing. The way their arms were aligned against one another, the warmth of his body seeping into his.

He paused a moment, and then let his neck relax, his head coming to rest on Enjolras’s shoulder, cheekbone hitting lightly against the curve of bone there. 

Enjolras’s breathing staggered a moment, and then his shoulder dropped slightly, muscles relaxing. 

After a moment his hand moved cautiously forwards, his fingers bumping lightly onto the knuckles on Grantaire’s right hand, lying limp against his own knee. 

The ends of his sleeves were frayed and worn; pulled up over his knuckles, and Enjolras’s fingers traced the threadbare fabric there, that smelled faintly of fabric cleaner. The movement was jilted, but oddly calming, and Grantaire’s erratic heartbeat began to calm itself, as the rain above them stemmed to slow dripping from the eaves about them. 

Those surroundings dropped away slightly, teetering off his compass as he sat there, his head resting on Enjolras’s shoulder, Enjolras’s fingers tracing gently over his skin and his slow breathing in his ear. The tree waving before him was exiled to semi-conscious awareness, along with the wet roof-tiles, and the brightening sky.

About the castle turrets, a hazy rainbow spread into existence, which Grantaire would have noticed if he had cared to search for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ONE MORE CHAPTER TO GO AHHHH i'm pretty sure i began this almost a year ago we've come full circle and i'm very emotional nooo
> 
> as always I can only apologise profusely that it takes me so dang long to write these I HOPE YOU FEEL ITS WORTH THE RIDICULOUSLY ENORMOUS WAIT I TRULY DO <3


	17. some days must be dark and dreary, and manticores are flammable

The exams finally ended, as they always did, despite their feeling of dragging longevity. 

The days found a new pattern, one where the castle had seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, one that had been pent up for months. The library emptied abruptly, and the corridors of the castle became deserted spare the odd wandering cat. The school seemed to empty itself into the grounds; students splayed out on the lawns by the lake and the ragged hills that led dizzily up to the Owlery and the Quidditch Pitch beyond. The flags about the stands warped idly in lazy breezes, its pitch deserted and waiting for September once again. 

The last few days of term slipped by one by one with a suddenness that seemed cruel in Enjolras’s eyes. May had long since slipped into June, and the moment they were free of the grind of revision and examinations June had sped away, like one of the shooting stars that Jehan and Eponine recorded in the night skies in Astronomy. 

They’d found themselves in a lazy rhythm of hot days; curtains in the common room billowing in warm breezes, bees hitting lazily into windowpanes. All lessons had wound down and ended, and eventually Enjolras found himself on the last day of term. 

It had been a hot day, and they’d spent it down by the lake’s edge, under the shade of the willow tree that cascaded its trailing branches downwards to dip into the water and send ripples across is surface. Around two, Bahorel, Feuilly and Grantaire had gone down to see Hagrid, and to say farewell to the Augureys that had been stalking about his pumpkin patch for the last few months. Grantaire had introduced Enjolras to them last week, and one meeting was enough. They weren’t the friendliest of birds, which Enjolras could support with the nip on his finger which hadn’t quite healed. 

The rest of them had wandered off at different points of the day; Eponine with Montparnasse to get Gavroche and Azelma packing their meagre belongings; Marius and Cosette towards the Owlery to send a last minute owl asking her stepfather if Marius could stay for the whole of summer; Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta to the Divination Tower, in what appeared to be an attempt to secure a crystal ball to take back on the train. Given that last year they’d smuggled home a very-put out portrait, Enjolras thought this was preferable. 

None of them had come back to their spot by the lake, and Enjolras’s last few hours of the afternoon had been spent between Combeferre and Courfeyrac. They had all seemed rather subdued, but there was something to their silence that seemed warm and safe, the result of years of friendship that had turned them into more than friends but into something like the family Enjolras had never quite found at home.

They’d gathered their belongings when the bell tower began to sound six o’clock over the grounds, a merry rhythm of bells that meshed with the crows squawking in the branches of trees, and the sparrows that sang a softer tune. The rest of the students that had gathered outside began to get to their feet too, quick to begin the walk back up to the doors to the Entrance Hall, to reach the end of term feast. 

“I,” Courfeyrac announced, entering the gap between Combeferre and Enjolras and slinging an arm around each of their shoulders, “am excited for roast potatoes.” 

“I’m excited for sprouts.” Combeferre replied, and Courfeyrac scuffed a hand through his hair in despair. 

They lapsed into a brief silence as they headed up the steep hill, towards the grey slate steps that began the Covered Bridge. 

“Are you both still up for a trip to Diagon Alley after the train gets in tomorrow?” Combeferre asked them quietly.

“Combeferre needs to get his fix in from Flourish and Blotts.” Courfeyrac chimed in instantly, “Did you know he hasn’t been there in six months?” 

Combeferre’s elbow found its way firmly into Courfeyrac’s ribs. Courfeyrac turned wounded eyes on Enjolras and he looked hastily away in a vain attempt to uphold a composed face. 

The Entrance Hall was as crowded as he expected, students of all houses vying with one another to enter the Great Hall, and begin saying their goodbyes for summer. The thought set Enjolras rather blue, as he looked up at the arching ceilings of the Entrance Hall, a feature of the castle he’d grown so used to it was as common as breathing.

This summer would be different, he’d already promised himself, and he felt fairly certain he could keep that promise. This summer he had far more than his last year self. This year so much had changed. 

The banners for the school were draped from the spanning ceiling rafters in the Great Hall, deep purple billowing in the soft draft that spiralled in through the doors to the Entrance Hall. Ghosts were drifting about the hall, conversing with one another and sometimes dipping down to skim over the heads of the students, and cause some unlucky people to experience a ghostly foot passing through their foreheads. 

None of the others were there yet, and Courfeyrac bounded ahead to bag a place on the Ravenclaw table, hauling his bag from his shoulder and flinging it onto the bench on the opposite side of the table. The third year that was set next to the bag sent him an unimpressed look.

“I’m saving the space.” Courfeyrac explained patiently, “For ten people.” He turned to Enjolras and Combeferre as he settled into his claimed space, “I wonder if the school would grant a request for our own table?”

“No.” Combeferre and Enjolras told him in unison. 

Entrance to the hall was painstakingly slow, and the three of them sat impatiently for the rest of the group. Courfeyrac's stomach started grumbling. 

They passed the time with Courfeyrac prodding Combeferre to produce the spiralling, drawn lights he could send gently from his wand; images of butterflies or fish that darted out silver and gold before dissolving into showers of soft light, like the spray kicked up by the wind from waves. It was never quite as beautiful when anyone else attempted it, Enjolras thought. 

He remembered the first time he’d seen them, when he’d visited Combeferre’s house, during his grandmother’s stay there. She’d hummed a low spell under her breath, and the small, packed house had been lit up with a thousand colourful enchanted lights, and Enjolras remembered thinking that this was what a magical house should look like. Not some cold house with high, empty dark halls. But a place that had a hundred colours squeezed into it, with Combeferre’s little sisters giggling as they drew henna on one another's wrists with their wand tips.

Enjolras had been raised in a house that had prided itself on its Pureblood ancestry, and the wealth of inherited gold that weighed down vaults at Gringotts. Combeferre wore handmade jumpers, and brought much used, handed-down textbooks to classes; remnants of his Half-Blood family who had lived in Maharastra until the turn of the century. 

It was strange, Enjolras had once considered, how narrow minded magic could make some people, and how open and loving it could make others.

Marius and Cosette were the first to join them, their hands linked and faces bright. Cosette easily set herself down next to Courfeyrac, and the two somehow launched themselves into a discussion about Marius’s skill at Arithmancy, which could probably last them long into the evening. Marius went the shade of Cosette and Courfeyrac’s Gryffindor robes. 

A pair of hands came down suddenly on Enjolras’s shoulders, and he jumped.

“Budge up,” Grantaire’s voice said, low in his ear and making goosebumps erupt over the skin on his neck. He could hear the smirk on his lips.

“There’s plenty of room on this side,” Enjolras pointed out, in an attempt to sound peevish, gesturing leftwards as Grantaire bundled himself onto his right side, a mass of tangled curls and long sleeves. 

“Where’s the fun in that?” Grantaire replied, turning to meet his eyes, smiling, and Enjolras revelled in the way his heart slipped about his chest.

“How was Hagrid’s?” Combeferre asked, as Feuilly and Bahorel both sat themselves down on the benches. Feuilly was busy working a finger about his mouth, looking disgruntled.

“I think I’ve got rockcake stuck in my teeth.” He said.

“I think I’ve got teeth stuck in my rockcake.” Bahorel embellished.

“You actually suck.” Eponine informed him, arriving in time to catch the two comments. Gavroche was at her side, snickering under his breath as Bahorel looked mortally offended. 

Their group eventually became complete, Joly, Musichetta and Bossuet rushing into the hall just as the speeches began. There was a suspiciously crystal ball- shaped lump under Joly’s robes, pushing out his jumper at a bizarre angle, and the three of them were in silent hysterics. Bossuet attempted to whisper to them what they’d been up to, and ended up getting the hiccoughs. They echoed about the hall in a rather woeful manner.

At Enjolras's side, Grantaire’s shoulder shook with surpressed laughter. 

The end of term feast was not very different from the five that had preceded it in earlier years; in that they were hours that passed far too rapidly, and made Enjolras feel slightly sick from the force of the happiness that welled within his stomach. It felt stronger today, for a medley of reasons that he couldn’t make into a list. Perhaps most of it was due to Grantaire beside him, firing witticisms at anyone within earshot, or laughing loudly at Courferyac’s jokes. And looking over at Enjolras, an expression reserved just for him.

“I have an idea!” Joly said as he was piling profiteroles carefully onto his plate in some apparent kind of modern art recreation. “Let’s say our school year peaks.” 

“Come again?” Bahorel asked, mouth laden with treacle tart. Apparently the rockcakes hadn’t quite cemented his teeth together enough. Musichetta and Bossuet, however, let out a collective fond groan.

“He made us do this last summer.” Musichetta explained, leaning forward to spear a finger of strawberry ice cream from Enjolras’s plate. He wasn’t entirely sure how to react to that. He settled for acquiescence. “You say your favourite part of the year. No points for being a dick.”

“But that’s all I was all year.” Grantaire sighed, pouting.

“My peak was the heavy make-out session a few hours ago with ‘Ferre.” Courfeyrac said immediately, and Combeferre let out a low groan, hands coming up to hide his face. The back of his neck was scarlet. 

“Well, that was…truthful.” Marius commented, and Courfeyrac leaned over to high five him. 

“My peak was when Bossuet pushed Courfeyrac into the lake.” Combeferre said through his hands, and Courfeyrac let out a high-pitched gasp that sounded akin to him trying to suck all the air in the hall into his lungs.

“My peak was the detention Hagrid gave me for trying to steal a Niffler.” Bahorel said, an oddly misty look coming over his face, a hand cupping his chin, “We went out into the Forbidden Forest and just went looking for Porlocks and Unicorns most of the night. He didn’t take away the Firewhiskey I’d brought with me either.”

“That was _not_ your peak.” Eponine informed him, with a flat severity that made Bahorel do a double take. At her elbow, Gavroche looked enthralled. 

“I’m a liar.” Bahorel said after a long pause, face clumsily blank, and Feuilly dissolved into laughter.

“Marius?” Joly prompted, apparently keen to keep this on track.

Marius went very red, and muttered something about Transfiguration. Cosette must have understood it, for she smiled with the brightness of July sunshine, and kissed him on the cheek. It did little for his red face. 

“Enjolras?” Courfeyrac chimed in, looking at him with an intensity that immediately set Enjolras's brain hurtling. 

“History of Magic.” He’d blurted, before he’d really considered it. He immediately felt eyes on him.

“Every single lesson?” Musichetta prompted, arching an eyebrow. There was a definite smirk on her lips, and Enjolras forced his shoulders back in a vain attempt to retain some form of dignity.

“Yes.” He said steadily, as Courfeyrac lapsed into not very silent giggles. Enjolras wasn’t looking at Grantaire, but he’d felt him stiffen slightly when he’d first spoken. His face felt hot, and he focused on the way his hands were wound tightly in his lap.

The apparent peaks became a little ridiculous after that, culminating with Musichetta’s tale of a gravity-defiant broom-flight with Bossuet up to the Astronomy tower, all of them firmly concluding that it had definitely never happened. 

The feast ended soon after, and as one the various houses rose to their feet, and the swell of noise that had lasted for the past hour or so seemed to rise even further in crescendo. 

“Let’s walk back the long way.” Feuilly suggested, raising his arms above his head in a languid stretch, “I heard Peeves was planning to chuck water balloons on the people going upstairs through the Grand Staircase.” 

They accepted that without doubt, as it really had been quite a while since any of them had fallen foul of Peeves, and it seemed a shame to end that now. Instead, they pushed past a faded tapestry of Gregory the Smarmy, and along a narrow corridor that filtered the noise of the Entrance Hall until it sounded as if they were hearing it through water.

It grew colder, and the dust settled itself up Enjolras’s nose, and eventually they cut across a corridor and out into the evening air, the viaduct before them, thrown into dark blue as the setting sun snatched the colours of their hue in lieu of night.

Gavroche had followed them from the hall, and at the sight of the empty viaduct he let out a loud whoop and took off at a run. Behind him, Eponine dashed off after him, windmilling her arms, feet hitting heavily against the flagstones. 

The sun was arching down over the western buildings, the tall towers that spanned up into the darkening sky. Out across the viaduct, the lake glinted in the evening light, its further expanses shimmering like a haze of gold coins. 

A shoulder brushed against Enjolras’s, and Grantaire appeared at his side.

“History of Magic, huh?” He asked, and when Enjolras hung back to look at him, there was a definitive smirk on his lips.

The rest of them were drawing ahead, unaware of their lack of movement, and Enjolras rubbed his fingers against the knuckles on his left hand. It was an uncertain, halting movement.

“Yes,” He said, smiling slightly, pulling his gaze across to meet Grantaire’s properly this time. Grantaire’s eyebrows drew up, as if he hadn’t expected Enjolras to persevere with this answer, but then his lips stuttered into a smile, and he let out a low laugh.

“Endless goblin rebellions are enthralling.” He finally said, eyebrow flicking up towards the curls of his hair as he looked away slightly, smirk still in place. 

“It was either that or when you fell asleep on my shoulder.” Enjolras said, and was rewarded with the look of horror that Grantaire adopted. He couldn’t quite tell in the fading summer light, but he was fairly certain he was blushing. Grantaire seemed to consider, and then a hand came out and knocked him lightly on the arm.

“Uncool, man.” He said, but he was smiling in that way that made Enjolras’s heart light and impossibly giddy.

He was very close to him as they slowly made their way after the rest of the group; his arm brushed against Enjolras’s.

“You never said what yours was, you know.” Enjolras pointed out, the warm scent of the night folding itself over his nose and lips, making it impossible to envisage the colder winter months they’d left behind them long ago.

Grantaire shifted next to him, 

“Didn’t I?” He asked, tone half distracted, as if he were somewhat amused. “How strange.”

He didn’t expand beyond that comment, and Enjolras let them walk a few paces, past a narrow alcove that was gleaming orange in the dying light. Then he said in a tone slightly firmer than he had intended.

“ _Grantaire_.” 

“Oh, right,” Grantaire said, and his tone was its old mocking one, the kind that maybe Enjolras liked a lot more than he thought he once had. “You wanted _elaboration_.” 

He paused a moment, and then a hand came gently up to Enjolras’s shoulder, and he pushed him against the dipped alcove that had been nestled half-heartedly into the brickwork. His back hit against damp stone and idly creeping vines. 

Grantaire’s lips were twitching, as if he were trying to smirk, but there was a look in his eyes that was undercutting it, setting his irises a darker hue as he studied Enjolras’s face.

“It’s early summer,” He said, and Enjolras let himself be confused for a moment, Grantaire’s palm still flat against his shoulder, “And you’re kissing me in the greenhouses. And there’s a lot of fucking rain.” 

Enjolras let out a breath of amusement that disturbed Grantaire’s hair, his eyes locked on his. 

“That's a rather good choice.” He said.

“I rather thought so.” Grantaire said, brightly, lips twisting at it. They paused a moment, so close they were stirring their hair with breathing, and then Grantaire dismantled the distance that remained between them and he was kissing him again, nose crushing slightly against his own. The wall was uncomfortable at Enjolras’s back, but he didn’t particularly care. Grantaire’s hand was still pressed firmly against his shoulder, and it was shooting spiralling rivulets of warmth along his skin, rocketing through his bloodstream.

There was a loud and rather unceremonious wolf-whistle somewhere off to their right. Enjolras felt Grantaire smile against his lips. He also didn’t pull away. 

The others had made it to the edge of the viaduct by the time they broke apart, a little wanting of oxygen. They had slipped to silhouettes in the flaring sunset; their shadows stretched long against the paved stones. 

“Oh thank goodness,” Musichetta remarked when they rejoined them, “We thought you’d been hit by a terrible lip-locker curse.”

Grantaire elbowed her playfully, which disintegrated into a scuffle where there was a fair bit of tugging on Grantaire’s curls, and standing on feet.

“Are we _really_ all going into seventh year in September?” Feuilly asked dryly, as an elbow landed on his chest owed to unfortunate proximity. 

“Not if my Divination exam is anything to go by.” Bossuet replied, from where he and Gavroche had been hurling stones from the balustrade, far, far down into the murky ravine below. 

They laughed at that, the story having been made funnier with each retelling Bossuet gave, each time more elaborate and ridiculous than the last. 

Enjolras found the small of his back pressing against the stone balustrade; so cold out of reach of the dying sun’s rays that it felt almost damp. He leant there contentedly, and watched the playful repartee between Grantaire, Musichetta and Feuilly; and Bossuet, Eponine and Bahorel selecting stones for Gavroche to send pelting into the sunlit water below. The sun was at the aggressive, glaring angle it acquired in late evening during summer; angling across his gaze and setting his friends into dramatic half-light. He watched it turn Grantaire’s hair copper; and Comebeferre’s glasses gleaming orange as he laughed at something Courfeyrac had just said. 

This summer would be different, he thought again. From Combeferre and Courfeyrac next to him now, to the way Marius’s shoulders no longer seemed to hunch as much as they once had done, to the small smile Eponine wore as she scuffed a hand through her brother’s hair. They were growing all the time, as Enjolras had learnt himself; in ways he’d never expected; spiralling and curling at random like ivy towards the summer blue sky. And new kinds of happiness seemed to follow that; happinesses Enjolras hadn’t ever thought he’d feel.

Next to him, Grantaire appeared. He leant his weight against the balustrade, arm knocking lazily against his own, and Enjolras wondered if he could voice how brilliant he looked, with the sun behind him, speeding towards the mountains and closing the last day of term with merciless finality. The words would be better on Jehan’s tongue, but he tried to unravel them in his mind, to speak when they began to walk back to their dormitories.

A stone clattered hollowly against one of the spanning stone columns of the viaduct, followed by a whoop from Gavroche. 

Grantaire met Enjolras’s eye and smiled; eyes cast maroon as the sun finally kissed the heather and gorse hills to the west.

\- 

The train sat idly on its tracks by the platform; sputtering and gasping as it wafted billowing warm air over the iron latticed bridge and the milling heads of the students clustered there. It was already a hot day; the carriage windows were glinting in the early morning light, and the back of Grantaire’s Muggle jumper was sticking to his back.

Behind him rattled his chest, occasionally biting at his heels as he manoeuvred it swiftly about the crowd towards the carriages at the back of the train that were not yet full of owls, chests and students eager to get home.

Well, mostly eager. 

“Why is everyone _hurrying_.” Eponine muttered, kicking at her chest from where it had toppled slightly onto one wheel. At her side, Montparnasse was laden with his and Gavroche’s posessions. Grantaire didn’t know how he was managing to carry a fuchsia backpack, two school chests, a bird cage and a rucksack, nor how he was managing it with relative gracefulness. The sunglasses probably helped. The lollipop he had in his mouth probably didn't. 

“They’re trying to get into the carriage that doesn’t smell of Troll feet.” Feuilly replied, “Can anyone see the others?”

Grantaire was about to say no, when he noticed Marius’s head peering out of one of the carriage windows a few metres away. 

“I see a disembodied one.” He responded, as Marius began to wave manically. He mouthed something that seemed like ‘we saved seats’. 

Grantaire eventually navigated his troublesome case towards a carriage door, kicking it soundly to gain enough momentum to haul it up onto the step. The owl placed on the nearest luggage rack regarded him with disinterest, until he wheeled the case up against the one its cage was perched on, and it rattled dangerously.

“Sorry mate.” He told it as it hooted furiously. 

Montparnasse followed him into the carriage, navigating the ridiculous amount he was carrying with the same annoying ease with which he had transported it. He swung the fuchsia backpack off his shoulder to finish, and took the lollipop from his mouth.

“That was fun.” He said,

“Is that a _blood-flavoured_ lollipop?” Grantaire asked, and was spared an answer by Eponine hopping onto the train carriage, looping an arm about Montparnasse’s. 

“Montparnasse and I are going to walk to the back of the train.” She said, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she began to steer a compliant Montparnasse towards the carriage corridor, “Buy me a pumpkin pasty, will you?”

“That is the _worst_ euphemism for going to make out that I have ever heard.” Grantaire called after her, and received a not-so polite hand gesture in return. Feuilly patted him on the back. 

The two of them headed in the opposite direction to Eponine and Montparnasse, over the now deceptively still rubber links between the carriages, and down past compartments already heaving with people. 

Eventually, they came across a compartment that was very intricately layered with people that they recognised. 

It had been realised long ago that a compartment built to seat eight people could never comfortably house a group of twelve. And Cosette had now elegantly breezed into their lives; bright in all accounts except for train travelling comfort.

Currently, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Musichetta and Jehan were accommodated along one row of carpeted seats. Jehan’s enormous cat sat on his lap, white fur drifting out about her as he stroked her idly. Joly was sat on Musichetta’s lap, and Bossuet was cross-legged on the floor, leafing through _The Quibbler_. Marius had disentangled himself from the window, and was now sat by the compartment door, his hand in Cosette’s. Enjolras was by the window, elbow on the frame and fingers working absent-mindedly through his curling hair.

Somehow, Bahorel had crammed himself into the luggage rack.

“What the fuck.” Feuilly said politely, as he studied Bahorel, who stretched languidly and threw a hand up over his head in a ridiculous pose. It hit loudly against the ceiling. 

“We think he’s going to break it in about two minutes.” Courfeyrac said, throwing his leg over Combeferre’s. 

“We’re ready to run.” Cosette added, casting a look at Bahorel above her. 

"As long as you don't knock our Crystal Ball down." Musichetta called up to Bahorel. 

“You two are late.” Joly tutted, “You said you’d be right behind me and Marius when we left the dormitory.” 

“We tried to create a short-cut and sit on the broomstick,” Grantaire explained, hauling his bag into the rack next to Bahorel. It hit none too gently against his head, “But it didn’t go particularly well.” 

“Look.” Feuilly pouted, ripping up the sleeve of his jumper to reveal an ominously red, raised patch of skin.

“That looks like it will be a stonker of a bruise.” Bahorel commented cheerfully.

Grantaire slipped past Feuilly as he began a response that seemed an opener to the start of one of his and Bahorel’s sparring matches, and headed towards the free spot next to Enjolras.

Enjolras met his eye and smiled, the warm kind of smile that seemed to heat Grantaire’s insides, warmth seeping down to his fingers and toes. 

“Here,” He said, and moved over to create a space by the window. This stirred something in Grantaire in a way he couldn’t quite voice, but he also found it inexplicably greatly amusing, and so he settled himself in the vacated seat with a laugh. Enjolras’s shoulder pressed against his in the limited space. He smelt of outdoors, of the musk of train steam and fresh summer pines. He let himself be intoxicated by it. It felt liberating, to let himself wrap about Enjolras, to let himself yearn for him without the pain that had followed those thoughts for so long. It still hurt, and he felt it always would, but it was in a cleaner way, a sharper way. 

Above the reeling steam and clustered students, and beyond the span of trees that spread away up the hillside, Hogwarts stood, high on the cliffs in the warm summer sunlight. The largest, widest tower was the most visible; its glass windows seemingly fashioned from gold as the sunlight hit against them. Through them, he knew, the staircases were moving, stone quietly grinding against stone, for no one but the ghosts now. It set a sudden and determined melancholy about him, one he had been fighting ever since exams had finished. 

He’d lain awake long into last night, eyes heavy and sleepless with the return of the insomnia that had laid itself about his shoulders in earlier months. He’d imagined the stars in the sky spinning forwards, angling back down towards the horizon and dragging forwards the dawn, when he’d have to leave the place that had been the only home he’d ever had. He’d wondered if Feuilly and Marius, sleeping in the beds next to him, felt this too, and he knew that they did. He wondered if it ate at them too, like a fire that clawed at intestines. 

In the end he’d thrown back the covers, as he’d always done on nights like those, and had trodden the familiar path up towards the tall towers. He’d watched the day come in on cool summer air, pink spreading across the horizon like leaking watercolours. 

He looked now at the castle, separated from him by the steep hills and jagged pine trees, and the tracks of a railway-line that would take him far away from here, from the hills bruised purple and red from heather and gorse, and the castle that he loved more than anything in existence, spare the people crammed now in this train compartment. 

Enjolras’s hand moved tentatively towards his, fingers knocking against his own, palm upwards. Grantaire took it. 

There came a sudden, loud wailing from Courfeyrac’s corner of the carriage. They all jumped and looked round, to find him sheepishly pushing something down into his bag. The wailing cut off abruptly. 

“ _Why_ ,” Asked Combeferre, voice steady and carrying, “Is there a screaming yo-yo in your bag?”

“That was a very serious confiscation.” Courfeyrac said quickly, adopting a mock solemn voice, and he even closed his eyes for a moment. “I had to do my miserable, yet noble duty as Gryffindor prefect and relieve a fourth year of this dangerous item.”

“And it’s now in your bag.”

“I’m momentarily borrowing it.”

The train gave a piercing whistle just then, and along the carriages the doors began to slam shut, rocking the floor beneath them. Grantaire pressed himself backwards in his seat, some half-hoping aim to delay this train for as long as he could. Enjolras’s knuckles grew white, his grip on Grantaire’s hand close to hurting. 

“‘Some days must be dark and dreary.’” Jehan recited quietly and suddenly from his corner by the window, and Grantaire realised how moody a silence had fallen over the carriage.

The train juddered, and then clumsily hauled itself forwards along the tracks, picking up the constant, slow shaking movement that would carry it all the way back to London. The platform outside the window began to drift slowly onwards. Enjolras’s grip on Grantaire’s hand tightened somehow further. 

It should have happened with more flare and drama, Grantaire thought, but one moment the castle sat in the hot July sunlight, proud and constant and magnificent, and the next it was gone. The tracks shifted to the left, a long slow curve, and their window released Hogwarts and instead took up lines of trees and tangled bushes. And like that the castle was gone from him until September. 

He was abruptly conscious of the emptiness that had settled in his stomach, as if something had dropped away from inside him. 

The silence dragged on until Combeferre stirred.

“Who wants a game of Exploding Snap?” He asked, retrieing a pack of cards from the pocket of his robes. The movement showed the worn t-shirt he’d put on under his robes, ready for the Muggle world. 

“Yeah.” Bahorel said in an unusually subdued manner, still crammed in the luggage rack. 

Under Combeferre’s gentle jokes, and the work of a rather exciting Exploding Snap round that saw Bahorel finally tumbling out of the luggage rack with the sleeve of his robes ignited, their compartment grew lively once more, heavy spirits somewhat lifted. 

Grantaire stayed slumped by the window, his elbow resting on the sticky rubber that framed the glass, watching the scenery beyond it whir into a medley of greens, browns and blues.

Sunlight hit in bursts against the windowpane, setting the dried water marks and dust it had collected over the years in brilliant light, before the trees blocked its rays and they were once more thrown into shadow. 

Enjolras breathed quietly next to him, his hand still closed about Grantaire’s. He could hear the slow rasp of breath leaving his nose, feel the beat of his pulse in his wrist. It felt calming, somehow, as the train shook its way over the tracks. He watched Courfeyrac’s leg, still slumped over Combeferre’s, shake with the rhythm of the carriage, and listened to Cosette laughing at the Exploding Snap game.

“I say we go to get ice cream later.” Bahorel said, busy slapping down a new hand of cards on the spontaneous table Combeferre had made from a levitating copy of _Hogwarts: A History._ The Manticore on the top facing card let out a low roar of approval. 

“That sounds good.” Feuilly agreed, before throwing down a matching Manticore card, and the pack exploded. 

“Your eyebrows are singed.” He commented, when the smoke had cleared and he could get a better look at Bahorel’s face. Bahorel swore loudly. 

“Fucking Manticores.”

“That reminds me,” Grantaire said calmly, sitting forwards. “Enjolras and I have decided we're going to Greece in August to help out with Manticore preservation.” 

Courfeyrac let out a strangled, squawking noise from where he’d been about to put a Fizzing Whizbee in his mouth. The sherbet hissed sadly into the sudden silence.

“You failed to tell us that,” Combeferre said, reaching over to take a sweet from the packet Courfeyrac was holding as he looked at Enjolras. Grantaire took the ‘us’ to be Courfeyrac and himself. 

“I love Manticores.” Enjolras responded, dryly, smiling, and Grantaire began to snigger at Combeferre's expression. 

“Send me some baklava.” Joly said with no small degree of enthusiasm. 

“You realise R will just quote Homer at you until you’re forced to kill him?” Musichetta pointed out, a hand moving through Joly’s hair in a subconscious manner. She seemed to be fighting a grin with difficulty. 

Enjolras didn’t seem to have considered this. He sent Grantaire a look. 

“‘No man, noble or humble, once born can escape his fate.’” Grantaire offered. 

Enjolras rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched. 

It was early afternoon when Eponine and Montparnasse slid open the compartment door. The trees had long since grow scarce, having spanned away to be replaced by the long, ragged grasslands of the Scottish Highlands; heather tumbling away to turn into craggy grey stone. Lochs caught the light in the distance, flaring brilliant white. The trolley had been past half an hour ago, and the compartment smelled of warm pumpkin pasty, and the tangy, sugary scent of sweets. 

“Budge up,” Eponine shot at Courfeyrac, and proceeded to wriggle into the few centimetres of space he’d left between himself and the carriage door. 

“There’s _literally_ no room.” Courfeyrac pouted, but obligingly shuffled as Eponine prodded him on the leg with a determined finger. 

“Heads up,” Grantaire informed her, before tossing the pumpkin pasty he’d bought her over Bahorel’s head and into her lap.

“Maybe someone should be a Chaser next year.” Courfeyrac smirked, 

“If you like to see your Chasers being beaten to a pulp.” Grantaire replied.

“Please remind me who won the Quidditch Cup after the Wronski Feint its Seeker performed, which the whole school was talking about for at least a month.” Joly grinned, leaning down so he could kick a playful foot against Grantaire’s shin. He felt his face heat with pleasure, and hid this by reaching over to steal one of the Bertie Bott’s Beans that Enjolras had purchased from the trolley. It was trifle flavoured, for which he was eternally grateful. 

Oddly, in a way that seemed rather impossible when he contemplated it, he found himself growing happier the nearer the train got to London. He paid little heed to the scenery that flew past the window; trees and great expanses of fields that grew less ragged and wild as they crossed into England; houses growing more clustered as they sped through villages, then towns. Instead, he absorbed his attention in his friends. 

He listened to Joly’s ridiculous jokes, and Jehan’s quiet laughter. He watched Cosette chatting animatedly with Bahorel as their Exploding Snap game lay smoking slightly on _Hogwarts: A History_. He watched Courfeyrac whispering something in Combeferre’s ear, and looked at the warm smile that spread across Combeferre’s face in reaction. He breathed in the scent of Enjolras next to him, and absorbed his attention into how it felt, to have his hand still encased in his; to feel his warm, smooth skin, grip tightening and loosening periodically as his muscles relaxed. 

He wrapped himself in all this, and felt like he was enveloped in warm water; seeping heat into his skin, into parts of his body that felt chilled so often. 

The window had been opened slightly, and warm summer breezes rushed into their compartment, lazy and languid.

Grantaire normally loved London. He loved the maze-like streets, and the way it smelt; of perfumed shops and city smoke, of car exhausts and coffee. He loved the museums; silent except in the steady movement of a thousand pairs of feet. He loved the riverbank; the grey skyline and its never sleeping occupants. In another lifetime he felt he’d be one of them; in a lifetime where castles and haphazard wizard high streets weren’t burned behind his retinas. 

Today, however, he hated London.

It rose up suddenly, as the train sped past suburbs; clustered medleys of terraced housing. Suddenly the buildings leapt upwards; grey and white and ochre; trees crammed desperately between them to pass by in whirring bursts of green. 

The train shuddered beneath him, and he felt it begin to slow. His heart slipped a few beats, as if the brakes of the train had pressed themselves on it as well. 

“That’s my flat.” Bahorel said suddenly, slamming a finger towards a flat-block that flew by too close for inspection.

“You say that every year.” Musichetta sighed.

“That’s because it’s his flat every year.” Feuilly commented, and Bahorel leant forwards over the Exploding Snap game to high-five him.

“Feuilly’s staying at mine.” Bahorel announced, which actually seemed to be more a question of reaffirmation as he studied Feuilly's reaction.

“Only if Eponine and Gavroche promise to drop by now and then.” Feuilly huffed, flopping back in his seat with a sulky air that seemed as real as Bahorel’s indifference. “You’re a nightmare to spend time with after the discovery of the Xbox.”

Eponine rolled her eyes as Bahorel let out an insulted squawk.

“Only because my brother’s obsessed with Bahorel,” She replied, as Montparnasse snickered. 

Bahorel looked as if he’d been told he’d just become Minister of Magic. 

The view outside the window receded from the medley of blurred lines from nearby buildings, and became clear, detailed images as the train slowed. It sounded like a dying beast to Grantaire, a medley of slow churning groans, and long exhales of steam.

It crept into King’s Cross Station, under the great panelled glass that arched high above and was set a blinding white in the late afternoon sun. It was dazzling to look at, and Grantaire let it burn onto his retinas, and by the time he’d blinked the image away from underneath his eyelids, Platform 9 ¾ had come into clear and stationary view. Smoke furled its way over an assortment of heads, the rhythmic thrumming of the engine slowing to a lazy, chugging whir. 

“Right then,” Courfeyrac said, remaining in his seat, leg still flung over Combeferre’s.

“Yep.” Feuilly agreed. 

Nobody moved. 

“ _Wow_ ,” Montparnasse eventually said, from where he’d been reclining against the compartment door. He angled himself round and threw it open, and effortlessly stalked out into the corridor where students were beginning to mill.

“He made that look easy.” Musichetta commented.

“Come on, guys,” Bahorel wheedled, leaning forwards to pull at Courfeyrac’s legs so that he slid forwards off Combeferre and into the dangerous possibility of crumpling onto the floor. “We’re getting ice cream, remember.” 

The prospect of that, and the winding chaos of Diagon Alley, and Bahorel's increasingly violent cajoling that saw Courfeyrac on the floor after all, eventually restored some semblance of movement. Bossuet staggered to his feet, giggling at the apparent pins and needles in his legs. He grabbed Joly and Musichetta’s hands and hauled them up with him, and the three of them tumbled out into the corridor, laughing.

Enjolras turned to Grantaire, and the sunlight filtering down through the swirling smoke beyond the train window lit at his hair, and set his eyelashes gleaming.

“Ready?” He asked,

“Like hell.” Grantaire replied through a twisted smile. Enjolras grinned slightly, and Grantaire, after a moment’s hesitation, threw out his hand and pressed it down onto Enjolras’s.

It took them a long while to get back to the carriage where luggage and owl cages were piled high, mixed up in the crowd of like-minded people. The squawks of the cages’ occupants added to the din of the platform; the mill of people, calling and laughing, and the ever present reeling of the train, cooling down after its journey that always seemed to take no time at all, despite the sun’s slow arch towards the horizon that claimed otherwise. 

He waited beside Enjolras for the carriage to clear slightly, their shoulder’s brushing; skin warming in the late afternoon light. He was humming something softly, and every so often joining in the lively comments that Courfeyrac and Combeferre were hurling back and forwards, their hands linked. Grantaire watched him, watched them, and let the sunlight on his skin drizzle slowly into his heart.

He supposed it was as Jehan had said. As Longfellow himself had said, so many years ago, but with a sentiment that had survived the hands of time. Some days must be dark and dreary, but the sun lay beyond the grey clouds still, waiting to warm his skin once more. 

And he thought of Feuilly, staying at Bahorel’s- because he wanted to- but also because he had nowhere else to go. He thought of Eponine and Gavroche, and their dingy London flat that smelt of stale cigarettes and damp. He thought of Marius, spending the summer with Cosette, away from the friends’ settees or hostel beds he usually spent his summers on. He thought of Enjolras, and the cold dark halls of the house Grantaire had never seen, where Enjolras had grown up. 

He thought of them all, just now, sitting in that train compartment, unable to move.

He felt a strange rush of guilt, as if his own dark feelings could possibly be cancelled out by those of others, and then he thought of Hogwarts, and how much it meant to each of them. They each held a long, loving affinity with the place, one that had entwined itself into each of their years of friendship, and spun itself about them like the concrete that helped build stone towers. That part of them would never erode, no matter the years or the weather, and he supposed he was lucky to have it. 

And then he had so much more than that. 

They finally moved into the luggage train, and began to pick out their chests and various bags strewn about the dark carriage. The platform outside looked bright against the gloomy, stuffy space. Already, most of them were standing out there. Bahorel, Feuilly, Joly, Bossuet, Musichetta, Cosette, Marius.

Jehan’s cat brushed against his ankles as she wormed her way about the crowd, and sank a claw into the foot of the robes Jehan had forgotten to change out of. He scooped her up with a steady hand, and she sent a powerful, orange-eyed glare at the people before her.

Up ahead, Eponine and Montparnasse were hauling up the impressive assortment of bags they’d accumulated between themselves and Gavroche. Grantaire was pleased to see the fuchsia backpack had survived the journey. 

He found himself studying them all, his friends, as if he were trying to memorise the set of their faces, of their characteristics movements and mannerisms. Pasting them to his mind like the pages of a scrapbook he would flip through over the summer.

“It’s not long, really.” Enjolras said quietly beside him, and Grantaire was not totally sure if he was talking to him, or more to himself. “A few weeks,”

“And a few Manticores.” Grantaire reminded him. Enjolras’s lip twisted, and Grantaire looked at him, seeing the boy who had once been so distant and cold, where he himself had been unbearable, some creature of mockery. Those parts of themselves were still there; they had not been swept away like the seasons that had spun about the castle and sent them back here. They were still there, because that was part of who they were, but there was so much else now, so many other things that had sprouted and taken bloom and blossomed over a space as small as a year. It seemed a kind of magic in itself. 

He let that thought take hold of him as he moved forwards to grab his chest and heave it out onto the steps of the carriage, Enjolras behind him, Euryalus rattling in his cage, ending the school year for good as his feet hit against the platform floor. 

That thought, as well as thoughts of warm sunlight through the clouds, and the knowledge of the people before him now, and the slow, wistful sighs of the cooling down train. 

He let those things overtake his mind, washing over him like a cooling wave of sea water, for it seemed a good way to end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALL WAS WELL.
> 
> omg i'm beyond sorry it took me such an horrifically long time to upload this- I can only hope it was worth the wait ?? 
> 
> anyway THANK YOU to anyone who's so much as glanced at this over this last year!! it's been so much fun to write and so many people have been amazingly lovely about it (seriously, thank you it's made my year ahh)
> 
> TAKE CARE 
> 
> #apparatesout

**Author's Note:**

> i did it i couldn't resist (i'm so sorry haaa)
> 
> anyway same old story i'm [here](http://icarus-drunk.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


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